Title: "Dust and Kites"

The sky over Kandahar was a pale, dusty blue, the kind that looked like it had forgotten how to rain. Bits of ash floated on the hot wind like snow from a fire, settling gently on broken windowsills and the blackened bones of buildings. Reza stood barefoot on the rooftop of a crumbling house, a tattered kite in his hand.

It had once been red, bright and full of promise. His father had helped him build it two years ago, before the bombs fell, before the streets turned to smoke, before silence became the only sound that made sense.

He tightened the string around his wrist and stared at the sky.

"Fly," he whispered, "just for today."

The kite dipped, caught a gust, and rose hesitantly, wobbling like a wounded bird. Below, the city murmured its agony—distant gunfire, the rumble of tanks, the hollow cry of a mother who had found nothing but dust where her son had played just moments before.

Reza closed his eyes. He could still hear his sister Zohra’s laughter echoing from the alleyways, her braid flying behind her like a banner as she ran. He could still smell his mother's saffron rice, hear his father's call to prayer.

They were all gone now.

Two winters ago, a drone strike had erased his home from the map. One moment he was in the market buying sugar cubes, the next he was staring at a plume of smoke curling above the place where his family had lived, where they'd laughed and argued and eaten together under the oil lamp's flickering glow.

Only he had survived. And sometimes, in the quiet moments between the call to prayer and the next explosion, he wished he hadn’t.

Now he lived with his uncle Hamid, a stern man with tired eyes and a limp from a Soviet bullet that never healed right. Hamid sold used tires and old tools, and he let Reza sleep on a mat behind the shop. They didn’t talk much. Grief had made them strangers.

But every Friday, Reza climbed this roof. He brought the kite, patched again and again with old scarves and plastic bags. It was the only thing that hadn’t burned.

"Still flying, Baba," he whispered into the wind. “Still here.”

The kite soared higher.

A sudden shout made him turn. Down below, a group of boys emerged from the alley—some younger, some older. Their faces were smeared with dust and hope. One of them pointed at the kite and waved.

Reza hesitated, then smiled and waved back.

They reminded him of his old friends—the boys who used to chase goats in the bazaar and toss pebbles at each other’s backs for fun. He hadn’t spoken to anyone his age in months.

He carefully brought the kite down, rolling the string with practiced hands. The boys watched him approach, curious.

“That’s your kite?” one asked, voice cracked from thirst.

Reza nodded. “Used to be red.”

“It still flies good,” another said, touching the frame. “Want to play with us?”

He blinked, surprised by the invitation. For a moment, words stuck in his throat.

Then: “Okay.”

They ran through the ruins, laughter trembling in the air like glass—fragile, sharp, and beautiful. They played until the sun sank behind the hills, casting long shadows like memories across the city. The kite flew again, passed between hands, its string knotted and mended as they took turns launching it into the sky.

But the joy was short-lived.

Just as they were packing up, a low hum spread through the sky—a sound Reza had learned to fear more than anything else.

A drone.

The boys froze. One of them dropped the kite. Reza’s heart pounded. They looked up. The speck in the sky grew louder, circling like a vulture.

“We need to go,” someone whispered.

They ran in different directions, scattering like frightened birds. Reza dove into an abandoned doorway, clutching the kite to his chest.

Minutes passed.

Then a flash. A sound like the world being torn open.

He didn’t remember falling, just the silence afterward. Dust coated his mouth. His ears rang. The kite lay beside him, shredded.

He crawled out, coughing. The street was rubble. One of the boys—he couldn’t tell which—lay crumpled in the road. Reza stumbled toward him, eyes burning, throat raw.

Too late.

He sank to his knees, staring at the small, still hand.

All around him, the world went on breaking.


---

The next Friday, Reza was back on the roof. He held a new kite. Yellow this time, patched with pieces of the old one. His hands trembled as he tied the string.

He raised it slowly, eyes full of tears he didn’t let fall.

“Fly,” he whispered again, voice shaking.

The kite caught the wind.