Ш§ші Шёщ„шёщ„щљ Щ†ш§щѓ Шёщ„шёщ„ш§_шјшєщ†щљщ‡ Щѓш±шїщљщ‡_ _ez -

The sun was dipping behind the jagged peaks of the Zagros Mountains, painting the sky in bruises of purple and gold. In a small village nestled in the valley, an old man named Azad sat on a stone bench, cradling a worn tembûr in his lap.

Azad looked at his calloused hands. "A nightingale does not sing because it wants to be heard, Siyar. It sings because the forest is heavy with silence, and someone must tell the truth of the heart." The sun was dipping behind the jagged peaks

Azad smiled and handed the tembûr to the boy. "The nightingale never dies, Siyar. It just finds a new throat to sing through." The sun was dipping behind the jagged peaks