Who could the man standing before the mirror be?
I felt as though I had seen him somewhere before.
Silent, yet from the depth of his gaze, the story of an entire lifetime seemed to drip away.
Without meaning to, my heart melted into his sorrow.
That face—so achingly familiar—like a missing fragment of a long-lost dream suddenly flashing before my eyes.
Behind the mirror, another life was awakening: Kabul.
That Kabul, cradled among dusty hills and rugged mountains.
The sun’s rays stretched slowly across the waking markets.
The ancient stones of Pul-e-Kheshti sighed for breath, and the scent of dates floated gently in the air.
The man before the mirror seemed like a memory come alive—
In his eyes: the smoky heat of wars, the old love stories, the cold winds of dying hopes, and the faded sketches of shattered dreams.
He ran his hand softly across the mirror.
The city behind it grew clearer, more alive:
Beyond the gray stones of Asmayi Hill, bouquets of flowers, green trees, the red alleys of Wazir Akbar Khan, and the weathered traces of Shahr-e-Naw’s old bazaars unfolded before him.
He smiled—a tender yet heavy smile—
A smile as quiet and cool as the shaded breeze under the ancient trees of Babur’s Garden.
And like a faded song, he whispered:
“You too are a fragment of this city… you too are a drop from its wounded memory.”
The springtimes of Kabul, the winters’ chills, the burning winds of summer, and the fallen hopes of autumn—all were stirred awake from the deep well of forgotten memory.
He reached toward the mirror, as if trying to break through it—seeking his lost self, his lost city, his vanished years.
Slowly, like a whisper of wind, the man faded beyond the glass, dissolving into his past, his pain, and his hope.
Yet Kabul, with all its wounds—with the laughter and tears of a child, the pen of a young dreamer, the turning pages of a girl’s book, and the silent endurance of the old Pul-e-Kheshti—remained, as ever, alive.
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