What Memory Doesn't Say

What Memory Doesn’t Say

In a country where insecurity reigned and justice had no place; two children grew up surrounded by racism and contempt for their people. Amid the chaos, a bond bloomed—one of love, of friendship, of sisterhood. Ana and Isa. Two sisters, inseparable, growing stronger together in a world that tried to tear them apart.

Born into a Black community that was constantly devalued, Ana and Isa never knew their father. They lived with their mother and brothers, until one day, tragedy struck. One of their brothers was murdered. Their mother, desperate for justice, found herself threatened and had no choice but to flee, leaving her children behind.

Separated from their parents, Ana and Isa had no one else who truly understood them. Their relationship deepened. They became each other’s strength, each other’s home. They promised to stay together, no matter what.

But fate had other plans.

After six long years, Ana was finally given the opportunity to reunite with her mother abroad. Isa, however, was denied the same chance. When they learned the truth, there was no alternative—Ana had to leave. She had to break the promise they’d made to always stay together.

The day at the airport was unbearable. Tears streamed down their faces as they hugged tightly, unaware that this would be the last time they’d ever see each other.

Ana, determined not to let Isa feel abandoned, called her constantly. She shared every detail of her new life—even the insignificant ones. It helped. Isa felt her sister’s presence, even from afar.

They had their rituals. Every Sunday, Ana would call at the same time, and Isa would wait with her favorite tea, brewed just the way their mother used to make it. They would talk about everything and nothing. The world outside was chaotic, but in those moments, they were safe. They were home.

Then came the day Ana forgot her phone at school. The office was closed, and she couldn’t retrieve it until the next day. That night, Isa was alone.

The next morning, Ana rushed to get her phone. But by the time she got home and charged it, she was exhausted. She fell asleep.

She woke to the sound of phones ringing. The people she lived with looked pale, devastated. They didn’t need to say a word. Ana felt it. A crushing pain in her chest. Her heart clenched. Her breath stopped.

Isa was gone.

A cardiac arrest. Alone. On the day Ana couldn’t call. The night before, everything had been fine. No illness. No warning. The unknown arrived—"du jour au lendemain"(From one day to the next), like a wind that sweeps through, destroys everything in its path, and disappears, leaving only silence behind. Ana collapsed. Screaming. Begging. She whispered:

“I don’t know how to fix this.”

She opened her phone, trembling, and selected every photo of Isa. She ordered an album. A fragile attempt to hold on.

They say people leave, but memories remain.

But how do you move forward when your memories are fading?

When your heart refuses to say goodbye?

Ana’s memory began to betray her.

She couldn’t remember Isa’s laugh.

She couldn’t recall the last message.

She feared losing not just her sister, but the part of herself Isa had shaped.

And yet, there was one thing that remained.

A song.

One night, under the starry sky, Ana and Isa lay side by side in the open field, staring up at the stars. No one understood them—not the world, not the strangers around them—but they understood each other. Hand in hand, they sang their favorite song. And in that moment, they knew everything would be okay.

“If I could make just one wish,

it would be to see your wonderful smile.

Wherever you go in this world, I will follow.

We share the same dreams.

You can count on me, and I on you.”

It was more than a song. It was their promise. Their anchor.

In their family, connection was a ritual. Not just through words, but through presence. Through shared silence, through the way they looked at each other and knew. Even when scattered by violence and borders, Black families like theirs held tight to invisible threads—faith, memory, and love passed down like sacred rhythms.

Ana remembered another moment:

A rainy afternoon when Isa had wrapped her in a blanket and whispered stories their mother used to tell. Tales of strength, of ancestors who endured. They had no books, no recordings—only memory. And memory, Isa said, was sacred.

“Even if the world forgets,” she had said, “we remember. That’s our power.”

You know when people around you start dying, it changes you. It leaves a mark. But for Ana, who loved her sister more than anything, she could say without hesitation:

“Je donnerais tout ce que j’ai pour avoir ma sœur rien qu’une fois dans ma vie.”

I would give everything I have to have my sister back just once in my life.

Even if she could travel through time, she couldn’t undo the separation. What she hopes—what she clings to—is that through this story, she might one day find her sister again. The laughter, even in jokes they’d told a hundred times. The bond of their song. That’s why, beyond all expectation, even as memories fade, deep in Ana’s heart she will always carry the hope of seeing Isa one more time.

And it is that same hope that keeps her alive.

Even now, Ana sometimes dreams of Isa—her voice echoing in the quiet, her laughter rising like wind through trees. In those moments, Ana doesn’t feel alone. She feels held. As if Isa never truly left, but lives in the spaces between memory and silence, waiting to be remembered again.

So, Ana began to write.

She wrote this story—for Isa.

Because even if memories fade, this text will remain.

And one day, when Ana no longer remembered Isa,

she would stumble upon these words,

read them,

and remember the bond that once held them together.

And in every word, she wrote, Isa lived again.