The next day, Zaid sat in art class, his mind still heavy with thoughts of his mother and the task looming over him. Across the table, Bassam was carefully layering watercolors onto his paper, creating a breathtaking landscape, rolling green hills, a soft sunset bleeding into a lavender sky, and delicate strokes suggesting a distant forest. The art teacher.paused behind Bassam’s chair, her eyes widening. "This is exceptional, Bassam," he said, genuine admiration in his voice. "The way you blend the colors, it’s almost lifelike." Bassam grinned "It’s all about the layers," he explained, turning to Zaid. "You start with light washes, let them dry, then build up the shadows. Watercolor is patience, you know?" Zaid nodded, pretending to understand. "Yeah, layers. Got it." The teacher moved to Zaid’s side, peering down at his half-finished sketch, a clumsy attempt at a tree, the lines shaky, the shading uneven. His lips pursed. "Zaid," he said gently, though his tone carried a hi