On that night, after 471 days of living among the rubble of memories and wounds, time passes in an unfamiliar slowness. For the first time since those stormy days, I lay my head on the pillow without the accompanying feeling of terror that the place might be bombed in the blink of an eye. For the first time since those dark periods, I feel silence surrounding me, but this silence is not peace; it is a void that reflects the absence of souls whose laughter and sighs I once heard before death took them away. I had gotten used to sleeping with the hope that I would wake up the next day to the face of a lost loved one, that life would go on despite the destruction. But now, with the first moment of sleep that greets me without fear, I cannot stop the tears falling on my pillow, as if they are remembering friends and loved ones I lost over those days, as if they are comforting my soul that bears deep wounds that can never heal. How cruel it is to find yourself in a safe place and still fear waking up to another nightmare.