A few days later, the classroom was unusually quiet. The teacher clapped her hands.

"Today, group reading. Everyone will read a sentence."

A low murmur rippled through the room. Books were passed around, and voices followed one line at a time. Zara looked down at the page, tracing the sentence with her finger. She could recognize the letters, but the pronunciation still felt unfamiliar—heavy, like stones in her mouth.

Her turn was getting closer. Her heart pounded, the sound echoing up to her ears. Sweat dampened her palms, leaving the page slightly wet.

Could I ask not to do it? Could someone read for me instead?

The student in front of her finished the last word. The classroom fell silent for a moment. Now all eyes turned to Zara.

She parted her lips, but no sound came out. Then someone snickered from the back row.

"She'll mess it up again."

It was said softly, but to Zara it boomed like thunder.

No... this time will be different.

Three words she had written in her notebook the day before floated back to her.

Music.
Friend.
Different.

Zara squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. Slowly—carefully—she began to read. Her pronunciation wasn't perfect, but her voice grew steadier, stronger, as the sentence went on.

"...The... sun... is... bright."

The classroom went still. The teacher nodded, a smile forming.

"Good, Zara. Very good."

A few students whispered to one another, but this time there was no loud laughter. Zara exhaled, clutching her book tightly to her chest. Her heart was still racing, but a warm sense of pride spread through her.

I can do this. I can use my voice.

When recess came, the boy who had shared his earphones with her approached and spoke quietly.

"You did good."

It was only a short sentence, but Zara felt tears prick at her eyes. She nodded and whispered silently to herself.

Amani, today I finally used my voice.
Just like the song we promised each other, I'll protect my voice here too.