Day 6-9: The missing link

Perhaps it’s true that things can change in a day. That a few dozen hours can affect the outcome of whole lifetimes. And that when they do, those few dozen hours, like the salvaged remains of a burned house—-the charred clock, the singed photograph, the scorched furniture—-must be resurrected from the ruins and examined. Preserved. Accounted for. Little events, ordinary things, smashed and reconstituted. Imbued with new meaning. Suddenly they become the bleached bones of a story.
— Arundhati Roy, God of Small Things

Somewhere in Qalansiyah a girl fell asleep in her tent. Over night the dark sky turned into rain. Her tent door was left unzipped. The only victim that drowned was the device she used to record her stories. Spacebar, she called it. For the remaining few days, the device sat quietly in a sack of basmati rice, dead. Dead from the water damage. Dead from not having a place to charge. Many stories continued to unfold as Spacebar submerged in grains. She remembered it all. But she's going to honor the death of her little friend by leaving this void behind exactly as it were -- not recorded.

Qalansiyah

Ar-Arh