Chapter 01:
The blue markings on Massicilia’s skin were never meant to be hers.
That’s what her mother told her the first time she saw her tracing them, staring at the glowing lines on
her wrist as if they were secret words.
“Stop that,” her mother said, pulling down her sleeve with shaking hands. “These tattoos don’t belong
to you.”
Massicilia was only six. She didn’t understand what “not yours” meant. The markings had always been
there — curling, moving. Sometimes, she thought she could hear a soft humming coming from them,
like a whisper.
She lived in Dellys, a small seaside town surrounded by hills. Every woman there had tattoos — black
Kabyle designs on their hands and faces:
spirals for strength, lines for protection, dots for memory. These marks showed who they were.
But Massicilia’s marks were different. They glowed.
During the day, the light was faint. But at night, when everything was quiet, it shimmered and seemed
alive — as if something moved beneath her skin.
Her mother, Zohra, made strict rules:
no short sleeves, no swimming in the river, and no playing outside after sunset.
“People talk,” she said in Kabyle, her voice trembling. “And when people talk, they destroy.”
So Massicilia hid.
She learned to wrap scarves tightly even in the summer heat.
She kept her hands in her pockets when buying bread.
She avoided people’s eyes.
But sometimes, when her mother wasn’t looking, she would uncover her wrists. The light would pulse
softly, glowing to a rhythm she didn’t understand.
Each time, she felt something — a pull, as if something far away was calling her.
Her father never spoke about the tattoos. When he saw them, he turned his head away, as if afraid to
look. Fear lived in his silence.
At dinner, Massicilia sometimes caught her parents exchanging glances — not angry, not pitying, but
scared.
They were afraid of her.
And that was worse than hate.
Every night, she sat by the window and watched the ocean shimmer under the moonlight. It looked
like her glowing skin — alive, moving, full of secrets.
She would trace the glass with her fingers and whisper,
“To whom do you belong?”
The wind never answered.
But sometimes, the markings did — flickering, breathing, like waves on the shore.
Deep down, Massicilia knew one thing:
she was never meant to stay hidden…