The door of his family's apartment clicked shut behind Ali. Inside, the air was thick with a different kind of intensity, the silence of a home that had been holding its breath for days.For a moment, there was only stillness. Then, a gasp.His mother, Umm Ali, emerged from the kitchen, her eyes red-rimmed and wide. She didn't run; she stumbled, her hands flying to her mouth. A broken sob escaped her lips as she crossed the room in three steps and threw her arms around him, her whole body shaking. She buried her face in the shoulder of his clean jacket, her words muffled and choked."Ali, oh Habibi, Alhamdulliah! I couldn't bear it... I couldn't watch the videos after the first hour. I was so scared... I was scared we might lose you" she wept, her grip so tight it was almost painful. "Every explosion, every time I saw you fall... my heart would stop."His father, Abu Ali, stood a few feet away, his own composure crumbling. The strong, stoic man who had taught Ali how to be brave had t

Ali walked with a small, carefully wrapped gift box tucked under his arm. His first stop was Marwan's room. As he approached, he saw a scene that made him pause. Marwan's fiancée, Maria, was standing outside the door, her face pale and streaked with tears. She was pleading with a senior doctor."Please, just for a moment. I just need to see him. To know he's okay," she begged, her voice trembling.The doctor, a man with a kind but weary face, shook his head gently. "I'm sorry, Ms. Maria. The patient is exhausted and needs absolute rest. No visitors right now."Ali saw the doctor's expression tighten slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "His condition is stable. But he needs to rest. Please, trust us."Defeated, Maria nodded, her shoulders slumping. She handed a beautifully wrapped gift to a passing nurse. "Please, give this to him. Tell him I was here." She then turned and walked away, her steps slow and heavy, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.Once she wa

A few weeks later, the rhythm of life, though forever altered by loss, pressed onward. In Ali's household, a different kind of preparation was underway, one woven with threads of joy that felt both precious and fragile. His family had initially planned a grand, opulent celebration, a massive party to honor their heroic son. But Hanin had been gently insistent.“I want a quiet wedding,” she had told Ali’s parents, her voice firm but polite. “A simple, family party. That’s what would make me the happiest bride ever.”Ali, who had always harbored a deep-seated dislike for large, noisy gatherings, found himself wholeheartedly agreeing. “The simpler, the better,” he had confirmed, offering his parents a proud and unyielding smile. The grand ballroom was exchanged for a charming, sun-drenched villa on the coast, rented for a single, perfect day. It was a beautiful, intimate gathering under a clear sky, the sound of the waves providing a gentle soundtrack.His closest friends and brothers-

The passage of time in the hospital was no longer measured by the frantic beep of monitors, but by the slow, painstaking increments of recovery. In Marwan's room, the rigid stillness of injury had finally begun to thaw. The complex brace on his shoulder and arm had been replaced by a more flexible support. The bandages were gone, revealing scars that were fading from angry red to silvery white. The most significant change was one of motion.He was no longer a statue gazing out a window. He was in therapy. Physical therapy saw him gritting his teeth through exercises to regain the strength and range of motion in his shattered shoulder, his body trembling with the effort. Occupational therapy was a quieter, more frustrating battle, retraining his hands for the fine motor skills he had once taken for granted—holding a pen, buttoning a shirt.And then, there was his voice. The damage Yajij had inflicted was profound, but not absolute. He had begun to try. At first, it was only agonized, b

The morning air of the training ground smelled of wet grass, a world away from the metallic tang of blood and that had defined Laith's life for so long. He walked into the locker room, the unfamiliar scent of liniment and old leather filling his nostrils. The room was a buzz of low chatter and the rustle of kits. Among the new faces, one immediately stood out, Taha, the sharp striker from the tryouts, was already there, lacing up his boots.Their eyes met, and a grin broke out on Taha's face. "The Knight arrives!" he called out, extending a hand.Laith shook it firmly, a genuine smile touching his own lips. "And the sharpshooter. Congratulations.""To both of us," Taha replied. "We made it."Before their conversation could continue, the captain of the team, a veteran midfielder named Tariq with a permanent squint and a no-nonsense demeanor, clapped his hands for attention. "Alright, rookies. Settle down. Don't get too excited. I've seen a hundred hotshots come through here who could