04.11.2025, 9:45
Winter in Isfahan greeted them with a cold, piercing clarity. The sky was high and pale, and the air, free of summer dust, felt as fragile as thin glass. On the train, her father barely spoke. He sat engrossed in his papers—now no longer just a collection of his uncle’s clippings, but a thick folder filled with his own neat handwriting, full of diagrams and cross-references. He was no longer looking for refutations. He was looking for confirmations
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