Part 1: The Silent Witness
The winter sun filtered through the lace curtains of my living room, casting patterned shadows on the Persian rug—a rug I had bought in Beirut in 1982, back when the sound of shelling was my morning alarm.
Now, my mornings were filled with the whistle of a tea kettle and the chirping of cardinals in the snow-dusted oak tree outside.READ MORE BELOW
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