The Unhealable Wound

Chapter Seven (continued)

Days blurred into nights, and the village’s heartbeat slowed to a fragile pulse. The market stalls were quieter; laughter was a rare visitor. Even the children, once so full of life, tiptoed around the memory of Huda as if afraid to disturb a sacred silence.

Her father, once a man of pride and stubbornness, now wore grief like a second skin. At dawn, he would rise and walk the paths they used to share—paths now haunted by absence. His voice cracked when he spoke to no one but the wind, confessing sins only his broken heart could understand.

One evening, a stranger arrived—an old woman wrapped in worn shawls, her eyes carrying stories of loss and survival. She approached the father’s tent with cautious steps.

“I’ve come for the girl,” she said softly, “and for the wounds that bleed beneath the surface.”

The father looked up, surprised. “Who are you?”

“A keeper of stories, a bearer of truth,” she answered. “Sometimes, to heal, we must first remember what we tried so hard to forget.”

That night, by the flickering light of a small fire, the father shared his pain, the guilt that clawed at his soul, and the memories of a daughter he never truly knew.

The villagers watched from afar, their own hearts stirring with regret. Slowly, small acts of kindness began to bloom—baskets of food left at the grave, hands extended to those once shunned.

The wound was still there, raw and aching. But beneath the sorrow, a fragile hope took root.

Because some wounds, no matter how deep, can begin to heal—if only we dare to face the truth.