This is a book about breath. About memory that survives without permission. About people who speak, not because it is safe, but because silence would be worse. And about the slow, aching work of remembering when the world insists on forgetting.

 

I wrote this for anyone who’s ever had to carry truth in secret. For anyone who’s had to name the unnamed. For anyone who’s heard a voice in the quiet—and answered.

 

This is not a story of revolution. It is not a war cry. It is a reminder. That what they burn does not always die. That silence is not the same as peace. That if something is worth carrying, it will be carried—by voice, by breath, by hand. And that somewhere, someone will always remember the ash.