De Pro-Techie
Well-rounded Techie

The night was still, the air heavy with the scent of earth and pine.
Amina crouched behind the thick trunk of an old oak tree, her small hands trembling against the rough bark.
She could hear her father’s voice, low and urgent, just beyond the shadows.
“Hide, Amina,” he whispered, his grip firm on her shoulder. "Do not come out, no matter what you hear. Understand?"
Her heart pounded in her chest, and she nodded, though she didn’t fully understand.
She was only 12, too young to grasp the weight of her father’s words, but not too young to know fear.
She had felt the tension in her father’s hands as he spoke, the slight quiver of urgency in his grip that sent a chill down her spine.
From the distant glow of the village, the sound of footsteps crunched on the frozen ground—deliberate, heavy. Soldiers.
Amina’s throat tightened, and she pressed herself further into the tree’s shadow, the cold biting at her exposed hands.
“Do not come out,” her father repeated, his voice steady but strained.
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