The bloodstained yellow bus rolled through the gathering dusk, its headlights cutting twin paths through the deepening gloom. Inside, a heavy silence reigned, thick with the smell of gunpowder, sweat, and a loss so fresh it felt like a physical presence in the air. Shihab sat slumped in the driver's seat, his knuckles still white on the wheel, his mind replaying the horrific image of Uncle Hassan being dragged into the horde. In the passenger seat, Ayham stared blankly out the window at the passing shadows, his hands trembling slightly in his lap.
In the seats behind them, the twenty children from the orphanage sat in a quiet, fearful huddle. They had seen the blood on the men, the broken windows, and the grim exhaustion on their faces. Miss Ayah, the young teacher who had stayed with the
