Kabul March 2028
The sky over Kabul is a dirty bandage, partly clouded. Fog rolls through the streets, swift and low, mirroring the city’s frantic political pulse. Snow still clings to the Hindu Kush peaks like old scars, but down here, in the gutters, it has melted into slush—a gray soup of last week's snow and last night's rain. But no one looks down. Everyone looks up, or ahead, or at each other, eyes wide with disbelief. The sound is the first thing that hits you. It is not the Kabul they have known. No, this is a symphony of chaos: the victorious, percussive honk of motorists gridlocked on Jalalabad Road. Music—raw, defiant, bleeding from rolled-down car windows—clashes with the ancient call from the minarets. And beneath it all, a roar. A human roar. Crowds spill from side streets like a dam has broken. Young men chant until their voices crack: "Long live freedom! Long live justice!" Their fists pump the wet air. Women, some still in burqas, others with their...