The days at the hideout began to blend into a gentle, if fragile, rhythm. The frantic energy of survival was slowly being replaced by the quieter, more deliberate work of healing. Ayham’s body was mending, the vivid bruises fading to a sickly yellow, the sharp pain in his ribs subsiding into a persistent ache. But the deeper wounds, the ones carved by fear and helplessness, were slower to close.He had become the center of a small, quiet universe inhabited by Riham and Omar. They were his shadows, their small hands perpetually finding his, their eyes following him wherever he moved. If he shifted in his sleep, one of them would stir. If he stood to get water, two small figures would silently appear at his side.One afternoon, he was sitting on a threadbare rug in a patch of sunlight, slowly trying to restore mobility to his stiff fingers. Riham and Omar watched him with solemn intensity."Does it hurt?" Riham asked, her voice barely a whisper."Not so much anymore," Ayham said, offeri

The first light of dawn was just beginning to paint the hideout’s walls in shades of grey and gold when Shihab’s phone chimed with a soft, distinct tone he had been waiting weeks to hear.It wasn't the crackle of the radio, but the sound of a social media notification. His heart leaped into his throat. Weeks ago, in a moment of desperate hope, he had sent a message into the digital void to his mother’s account: Mom. We are alive. We are in the city. Are you and the others safe?He had checked every single day. Every day, the message remained unread. Until now.With trembling fingers, he unlocked the screen. There it was. A single line from his mother, Umm Shihab.'My son. My brave boys. We are safe. On Al Noor Island. Your father is with me. The internet is finally stable. Please, answer me.'Tears instantly blurred his vision. He didn’t type a response. His thumb, shaking uncontrollably, hovered over the voice call button. He pressed it, his breath held tight in his chest.The line r