Where the Wind Smelled of Ash and Hope
The plane touched down with a soft shudder, wheels dragging across the tarmac of Kigali International Airport. The skies outside were pale, cloudless, but heavy as if the land beneath held stories too old to be spoken.
Nishanth didn't look out the window. He had already memorized the country's history, but it wasn't facts he had come here for. It was feeling.
He walked through the glass terminal quietly, unnoticed. No fans. No journalists. No system chirp. Just a man with no luggage, a brown canvas sling bag, and eyes that had seen too much to be impressed by immigration lines.
A security officer waved him through with a simple glance and a stamp. Rwanda didn't demand explanations. It welcomed those who walked with stillness. The country had seen war, grief, genocide — the kind that rips a soul apart and leaves silence where music once lived. But somehow, it had rebuilt. From ash. From mass graves. From forgiveness.
