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He began to pluck a slow, rhythmic melody. His voice, though weathered like ancient parchment, rose clear and steady: “Ez bilbilê nav bilbilan...”

For years, Azad had been known as the "Bilbil" (Nightingale) of the region. They said his voice could make the cold marble of the mountains weep and the stubborn oaks dance. But tonight, his fingers stayed still on the strings. He began to pluck a slow, rhythmic melody

The sun was dipping behind the jagged peaks of the Zagros Mountains, painting the sky in bruises of purple and gold. In a small village nestled in the valley, an old man named Azad sat on a stone bench, cradling a worn tembûr in his lap. He began to pluck a slow