There was no morning. The night stretched endlessly, as if time had stopped, and smoke covered the sky until the sun disappeared. All I could hear was the roar of planes, sirens wailing, and explosions shaking the ground beneath me. I had no doubt—a new day of hell had begun.

We woke up to the sound of a nearby building collapsing. We didn’t know whose home it was, but we knew another family had vanished under the rubble. I stepped outside, watching people run in every direction. Some were searching for survivors, others carrying the wounded or their dead. I glanced at Ahmed’s house—or what was left of it, I didn’t dare go closer, and already knew he hadn’t survived.

At the hospital, the chaos was beyond anything I had imagined. Hallways filled with bodies, endless screams, doctors running from one patient to another with exhausted eyes. I heard my name being called. I turned to see my neighbor holding a small child, his face dusty, dried blood on his forehead. “Take him… he has no one,” he said before walking away.

That evening, we sat in the corner of our home, trying to convince ourselves we were still alive. A long silence was broken by my mother’s voice: “Will it pass?” I didn’t answer. I no longer knew if what we were living through could ever truly pass.

But I was sure of one thing—the worst was yet to come.