Before the Storm
"It’s dry again.”
Hamza dropped the bucket into the well and waited.
The rope slid through his hands, rough fibers scratching his palms.
He pulled it back up slowly. When it reached the top, the metal rim dragged against stone.
“Empty again.”
Hamza leaned over the edge, as if the well might suddenly change its mind.
“Maybe the well is tired of us,” Hamza said.
“Then tell it to get a job,” the old shopkeeper replied from the tea stall nearby.
A few customers chuckled.
The shopkeeper, Rahim, had been sitting on the same wooden chair outside his stall for as long as anyone could remember.
Most people believed the chair would collapse before Rahim ever decided to stand.
Rahim took a slow sip of tea and squinted toward the well.
“In my day,” he grumbled, “that well was full enough to drown a donkey.”
Hamza raised an eyebrow. “In your day, Rahim Chacha, the mountains were probably shorter too.”
Hamza wiped his hands on his worn trousers and turned toward the path leading back to the village.
That was when he noticed Mr. Shafi, the baker, chasing a runaway tray of flatbreads down the slope.
“Stop, you traitorous dough!” Mr. Shafi yelled, flailing his arms as the bread tumbled like little golden sleds, narrowly missing a goat that looked deeply offended.
Hamza couldn’t help but laugh.
“Hamza!” called Amina, the tailor’s daughter, from her doorstep. She held up a pair of socks that didn’t match. One was green, the other was… neon pink. “Do you think father will notice?”
Hamza squinted. “Notice? He’ll probably wear them proudly, call it a new fashion trend and charge extra for it.
The goat, now thoroughly bored of the bread chase, wandered over to sniff Hamza’s shoes.
“So, you’re here to judge her too,” he muttered.
As he strolled past the little shops, he spotted the old shopkeeper Fahad Chacha leaning against his counter, pretending to polish knives but clearly watching the chaos unfold with a smirk. Hamza waved. “Well, at least someone’s having fun today.”
The shopkeeper grunted. “Fun is for fools and flatbreads and apparently you, Hamza.”
Hamza grinned. "If you’re looking for trouble in Darvak, just touch a knife near Fahad Chacha."
Darvak was tiny, dusty, and perched on the edge of nowhere in Afghanistan. But it had its own heartbeat, and Hamza planned to laugh at every thump.
There wasn’t much else to do in a place like Darvak except complain about things that had been happening for years.
Hamza stretched his back and looked toward the road that curved along the side of the mountain. The road was little more than a dusty path carved between rocks, but it connected the village to the outside world.
Not that the outside world visited very often.
The bus that came to Darvak never followed a schedule.
Sometimes it arrived once a week.
Sometimes it didn’t come for two.
Most of the time people forgot it existed.
So, when the faint rattle of an engine echoed through the valley, Hamza frowned and looked up.
Rahim paused mid-sip.
“You hear that?” he asked.
Hamza tilted his head.
The sound grew louder.
A tired engine struggling against the mountain road. Rahim squinted toward the bend in the path.
“Bus?”
The bus that came to Darvak looked like it had survived three wars and lost all of them. It groaned up the mountain road, coughing dust behind it.
Hamza leaned against the tea stall and squinted at it.
“That thing again?” Rahim muttered.
“Relax,” Hamza said. “If it hasn’t fallen apart yet, it probably never will.”
The bus stopped near the square with a tired hiss. A few villagers gathered, mostly out of boredom. Nothing interesting ever arrived in Darvak.
The door creaked open, a sack of flour came down first.
Then an old man who looked older than the mountains themselves.
Hamza was already turning away when the driver stepped aside again.
Someone else was still inside.
A pair of boots appeared on the metal step.
Then she stepped down.
The small crowd went strangely quiet, even the goat stopped chewing.
The girl brushed dust from her clothes and adjusted the strap of the bag on her shoulder. Her eyes moved slowly across the village, taking in the houses, the tea stall, the well in the center of the square.
For a brief moment, her gaze passed over Hamza.
Not shy.
Not curious.
Just calm.
Hamza frowned slightly.
“Do we know her?” Rahim whispered.
Hamza shook his head.
But for some reason, he kept watching her.
