The song that returned to the mountain

Dear Delyara, I am a weaver from the hills. When the militia came to our village five years ago, they broke my loom and made us run into the dark until our feet were shredded by the rock. For years, every time I heard a motorbike engine, I would drop to my knees in panic, my heart bursting with the terror of that night. But this afternoon, a truck backfired right outside my workshop window, and I didn't even drop my thread. I just kept working the blue wool, singing the old song my grandmother taught me. The fear didn't leave with a shout; it just dissolved into the fabric. My hands are making beautiful things again, and the mountain is quiet.