When I got out of prison, I ran to my father’s house… and learned the truth was buried somewhere else.
The first breath of freedom didn’t feel like freedom.
It tasted like diesel exhaust, cheap coffee, and the metallic air of a bus station at dawn—like the world had moved on without bothering to wait for me. I walked out of the gate with a plastic bag that held everything I owned: two shirts, a worn paperback, and the kind of silence you collect after years of being told your words don’t matter.
But I wasn’t thinking about the past.
I was thinking about one thing.fakher
My father.
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