In the highlands of the Qalamoun Mountains, morning crept sluggishly through the edges of the clouds, brushing the rocks with layers of pale light. The rugged road wound between the mountains like an old rope, seemingly on the verge of snapping at any moment. Yet, under the guise of agricultural convoys, a group of vehicles moved as if part of an everyday scene, unnoticed. The sound of tires crunching on gravel, the echo of nocturnal labor, and hearts that knew no sleep filled the air.
Hassan sat on the edge of a small truck, his eyes scanning the horizon, his hands steadying the turmoil within him. He knew that what lay in the boxes was heavier than their wood— not in weight, but in moral cost. Beside him sat Mona, a woman not yet thirty, whose eyes did not lie: a mixture of determinatio
