I frown. “I don’t remember.”
“With all the destruction happening down there, it’s easy to forget the beauty that’s up here. The sky is so beautiful after rainfall.”
The most beautiful sunsets are always the ones that come after a rain, I had said to Layla once when we were at her family’s summer house in the countryside. We’d been stuck inside all day, watching a storm rage against the windows, unable to go swimming in the river beside the gardens. Layla played with my hair while we watchedCastle in the Skyfrom Baba’s laptop. It was the perfect comfort movie when the clouds were gray and the raindrops chased each other on the windows.
And I was right.
The sky is now a burst of purple and pink fragmenting through the tangerine orange, the clouds taking on a lavender tinge.
“You asked me if you could see colors again, Salama. If we deserve to see them,” Kenan says quietly. “I think we do. I think you can. There’s too little of it in death. In pain. But that’s not the only thing in the world. That’s not all that Syria has. Syria was once the center of the world. Inventions and discoveries were made here; they built the world. Our history is in the Al-Zahrawi Palace, in our mosques, in our earth.”
He points to the ground below and I peek over the ledge, my nerves electrified with the fear of falling. I squint and see two little boys and three girls laughing, playing some sort of game.
“Look at them,” Kenan says. “Look how even the agony hasn’t stripped their innocence.”
Then he points to a tree situated at the street’s side. Its three thick trunks twist through each other, the branches brittle-looking, a hint of green leaves surfacing through its pores. “That lemon tree’s been here forever. I used to climb it all the time when I was younger. I think there’s a picture Baba took of me sitting atop it, with Yusuf hanging to my side.”
I stay silent and glance at him. His tone is full of melancholy, his eyes capturing the golden light.
He sighs, shaking away the memories, and looks at me, smiling. “There’s still beauty, Salama. Still life and strength in Homs.” He nods toward the sun. “There’scolor.”
Slowly, I dangle my legs over the brink, keeping a few inches between us. It gives me a rush of adrenaline, being balanced between something solid and air. A sweet breeze tickles my nose and I close my eyes, inhaling it deeply.
When I open them, I’m taken aback by the magic unfolding in front of me. A few stars twinkle through the wisps of cloud. Decorating them like sapphires, precious gifts for those who would gaze upward. Eight levels above the ground brings a unique kind of peace. A quiet that accompanies a late winter night. It’s as if we’re floating in the cosmos, detached from everything weighing us down.
It’s a Studio Ghibli movie.
“Do you see the colors, Salama?” Kenan whispers.
The sunset is gorgeous, but it pales in comparison to him. He’s drenched in the dying day’s glow, a kaleidoscope of shades dancing on his face. Pink, orange, yellow, purple, red. Finally settling into an azure blue. It reminds me of Layla’s painting. A color so stark it would stain my fingers were I to touch it.
As the sun sinks, in those few precious moments when the world is caught between day and night, something shifts between Kenan and me.
“Yes,” I breathe.“Yes.”
IN A HISTORIC CITY PLAGUED BY BOMBS,LIFE HASpersisted. I see it in the green vines waking up from their winter slumber, squirming through the rubble. Daffodils blooming, their petals opening bashfully. I see it in Layla, who smiles more, now that I do. When I see these subtle signs of life on my way to the hospital, my heart expands.
But there are times where it takes everything in me not to fall into despair. Inside I’m still broken, haunted by a little girl I threatened to kill.
Still, Am and I have fallen into a routine: I give him one Panadol tablet; he reassures me with updates about the boat. Though the updates never change, I cling to hope.
Kenan, however, has been losing one thread of life after another as he spends more time at the hospital. His hands shake when he holds his camera, and his eyes are always filled with tears. I’ll never forget how he looked when he saw a seven-month-old baby who had been caught in a fire from a bomb’s blast.
He’s shown me more of the comments he’s gotten on his YouTube videos. Everyone is in awe, sending prayers for us and praising him for risking his life to document what’s happening. During those moments, there’s a certain glow on his face. A serenity I don’t see at other times. Like all of this is worth it. But it only exists in these brief moments and disappears entirely when death takes his hold on the hospital once more.
It hurts to know I’ve caused this breakdown in his fighting spirit when the words he spoke to me three weeks ago atop his old home have been reviving me. Our days together are numbered and I can’t stop myself from getting to know him. It hasn’t taken long for him to become a source of happiness and comfort for me. And I wonder if I’ll ever be able to tell him about Khawf. I wonder what he’d do.
When I walk out of the hospital after today’s shift, the evening sky is a dark blue canvas and Kenan is looking up at it.
“Hey,” I say, and he beams at me.
Outside the hospital and away from the harrowing realities he documents daily, Kenan usually manages to collect himself. Even though I see the cracks he’s trying to cover. During our walks, we either stay silent, untangling the trauma that has woven another knot in our brains or, if it’s been a really bad day and we need a distraction, we discuss other things. He’s told me about his drawing software and how he has a half-completed graphic novel saved on his laptop he wishes he could finish. I told him about my scrapbooks and flower-filled jars, and the way he looked at me with such awe made me ache for thatmightlife. Wishing I could have shown them to him personally in my room, where he’d then press me against him, lips on mine.
A thought occurs to me as we walk back home now, and before I can rethink it, I blurt, “Imagine if you and I wrote a book together.”
He stops, gazing at me so intently, I feel its touch on my skin.
“You write?” he finally asks.
