These stories are shaped by those slopes and the thin mountain air. Many are drawn from life, and others from dreams that felt too real to ignore. I do not claim grandeur or adventure in these pages. There are no revolutions here—only small, silent moments of love, longing, mystery, and hope.

Each story is a window. Look through it and you might find a girl waiting at a forest path, a boy watching clouds go by, or a letter tucked away in a pine box that smells faintly of old winters.

We write what we know. And what I know is this: the hills have more stories than stones. I only tried to collect a few.

Now, come sit with me by the window. I'll begin from the very beginning—when the clouds were low, and a boy began to chase them.

— Fazal Abubakkar Esaf