The prisoners were led down a scenic path, its tranquility unsettling against the grim reality. Herded into a dim, foul-smelling room, they were stripped of their belongings and left in tense silence. An hour later, new guards arrived, deepening their dread. Despite losing almost everything, a woman kept her cross, and a man his yarmulke. Each prisoner wore a locked box around their neck, a single gold coin inside to ominously mark their fate.

At the head of the line, Ahmad trembled, his eyes darting to his son, Hassan. Confusion and helplessness washed over him at the injustice they faced. The open door to the prison below loomed, amplifying the tension, but as the warden brought Aisha forward, a flicker of hope eased the fear. Hassan managed a smile at her, his gaze lingering too long. Ahmad noticed the lightness in his son’s demeanor painfully out of place amidst the cold floor, where clumps of his tousled hair lay scattered.

As Hassan’s head was shaved, the warden shoved Aisha behind Ahmad, separating father and son. Absent since their arrest, her sudden presence seemed stark against the bleak surroundings. The situation threatened to overwhelm her, but she drew upon a distant resolve. She hardened herself, letting fear slip away. Her poise, the quiet set of her jaw, became a shield against the horrors closing in around them.