Water—such a simple word, yet perhaps the greatest gift we were ever given. They say if there’s ever a third world war, it won’t be fought over land or power, but water. I believe it. But in our valley, there was never a reason to think of war. Here, water wasn’t just survival—it was identity.
Our land was cradled by mountains, and from their stony chests flowed streams so pure, so cold, it felt as if they carried the breath of heaven itself. Snow would rest peacefully atop those peaks, a silent promise that water would never abandon us. The Swat River—majestic and eternal—cut through the land like a silver ribbon, never slowing, never fearing the seasons. It flowed with purpose, as if it carried the heartbeat of the valley.
And maybe, just maybe, it was this sacred water that gave our apples their soul. Our orchards didn’t just bear fruit—they sang with life. One bite of those apples, and your mouth would flood with a sweetness that made silence feel like prayer. They were more than fruit. They were dreams hanging from branches.
This year, Baba’s hopes were tied tightly to those orchards. He walked among the trees like a man counting blessings, not profits. With the money from the harvest, he wanted to buy jewelry for Asma—our only sister, his quiet pride. She was growing up, and he wanted her to shine, not just in our eyes, but in the eyes of the world. He also spoke, almost apologetically, about getting new clothes for us. The ones we wore had long given up their shape. Even the house whispered for new things—essentials that had waited patiently for seasons to pass.
But Baba… he believed this harvest would change everything. And in the orchard’s silence, as apples ripened under a forgiving sky, we believed it too.