There were no nurses at 3 am. Only the creak of tiles and my own hands learning how to measure breaths. In Tehran, caregiving became the final act of bearing witness. My grandfather's last words were not private grief; they were an accusation that moved through the house, through walls thin with heat and dust, carrying the politics in his voice before anyone else did.
When the Vessel Overflows
Gham and the Limits of Endurance