This book does not begin with a war,
or a murder,
or a kiss stolen in a rainstorm.

It begins in a kitchen.
With a woman scraping burnt rice from the bottom of a vessel.
With a father counting coins in his pocket before the milkman arrives.
With a child wondering why the power only cuts off during her homework.

In every country, there is a room like this —
small, cluttered, filled with smells of compromise and cinnamon.
It's not a palace.
It's not a slum.
It's the in-between.

These stories are stitched with sighs and savings.
They are not dramatic.
But they are true.
As true as the slippers left outside a locked door,
as true as the sound of the fan that never turns off
because silence is too loud.

You will not find heroes here.
But you may find yourself.

— Fazal Abubakkar Esaf