**“In the moment the war began, time was no longer something to be measured, but something to be consumed.
The clock turned into a cake, as if history itself became a feast shared by absence.
The background, once in bloom, faded beneath the ashes of bombardment—
Yet the roots of the earth kept calling to her.
She sat not as a victim, but as a root—
as a shadow that does not vanish.
She carried the pain and shaped it into a form of endurance.
Everything around her was falling apart,
except her grip—
which became the final shape of meaning.
And even if the voice is silenced,
the roots still speak.”**
