SO MUCH WENT MISSING.

Today's morning, the streets are loud again.

People are shouting, crying, laughing — all at once.

The house we dreamed of is ash.

People stand.

They try to smile.

Their eyes speak something else.

We walk.

We continue forward.

We cling to whatever whispers life.

We laugh with the children—

but every laugh breaks

against the image of ruin.

There is no joy.

Only the attempt to stand.

To keep moving.

The ceasefire changed one thing:

the noise stopped.

But hearts still shake.

Tears remain.

The war isn’t over inside us.

The streets twist differently today.

They remember things they shouldn’t—loss.

The sky looks new,

but our eyes forgot what blue means.

We remember the streets before.

The marketlanes before.

The faces before.

We remember the Scent of mornings,

We carry all that like stones in our hearts,

heavy and familiar.

Everything reminds us.

The ruins. The dust. What remains.

Every step feels like absence—

of people,

of dreams,

of peace we never really had.

The children play.

They try to laugh.

But the laughter doesn’t sound right.

Each of us holds a private silence.

A private grief.

The war took the colours of our lives.

We lost more than homes.

We lost safety.

We lost trust in tomorrow.

We move,

slowly.

Each step is a climb.

Life is always moving,

like a river that never stops flowing,

and we keep moving.

We are here.

Among the ruins.

Trying to gather ourselves.

To find anything

that brings light to our hearts.

Maybe it’s not survival.

Maybe it’s just breathing amidst the wreckage.

But even that breath matters.

The memories stay.

The faces.

The screams.

The shock.

Nothing leaves us.

Still—there’s a small desire.

To live.

To love.

To dream.

To find one piece of Gaza

that feels alive.