A Curtain Divides the World - Prologue

dehongi Jan. 17, 2025, 6:36 p.m.

In Arash's world, everything came in pairs but was never allowed to mix. There were two entrances to every building: one for men, marked with bold, no-nonsense letters, and another for women, adorned with a flower motif that no one questioned. There were two sections in restaurants, separated by a curtain so thick it could muffle a scream, and even two lines at the bakery, as though bread had a gender preference.
But it was school where the divide felt the strongest. Arash’s all-boys school was a loud, chaotic world of roughhousing, competitive shouting, and an unspoken rule that everything, from pencils to playground arguments, must involve some form of combat. Across the street was the girls' school, a fortress of pastel walls and floral murals that seemed to hum with a serene, mysterious energy. For years, Arash and his classmates had speculated wildly about what went on behind its gates.
“Do …

A Wall of Time

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 3:18 p.m.

The cold wind cut through the cracks in the brick walls of the East Berlin apartment. Eva stood at the window, watching as the world outside trembled with uncertainty and hope. The Wall was coming down. The same Wall that had defined her existence for nearly three decades. The Wall that had divided her city, her country, her family, and her heart.

She gripped the curtains, her fingers trembling. It was happening. The cheers from the streets outside grew louder, mingling with the rhythmic pounding of hammers on stone. She had never imagined this day would come.

Her thoughts wandered back to the days before the Wall, to her childhood. To the long summer afternoons spent running through the streets of Berlin with Markus. They had been inseparable, two children who saw the world in a way that only the young can—full of wonder and possibility, their dreams as big …

Bound for the North

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 3:09 p.m.

The sun had barely risen when the Ford Model T sputtered to life, its engine groaning as if reluctant to leave the familiar red soil of Mississippi behind. Clara Harris held her breath as the car rattled down the dirt road, the distant hum of the engine the only sound in the pre-dawn stillness. Beside her, her husband, James, gripped the wheel with determination, his knuckles white.

"Everything we’ve worked for, Clara," James said quietly, eyes fixed on the road ahead, "it’s all up north. We can build something better for our children."

Clara nodded, her hand resting protectively on the small bundle in her lap—baby Ruth, fast asleep, unaware of the life-altering journey unfolding around her. Behind them, their two older children, Elijah and Annie, were silent, both lost in their own thoughts. The journey had been their idea, but Clara wasn’t sure if they truly understood what lay …

The Forgotten Engine

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:52 p.m.

Max Turner had always felt a certain magic in the mechanics of machines. As a child, his father’s garage had been a sanctuary, a place where engines hummed to life under his touch, and the scent of motor oil was a constant companion. But it wasn’t just the engines of today that intrigued him—it was the stories of the ones left behind.

While cleaning out the back corner of the dusty old garage, Max stumbled across a rusted frame, half-covered in an old tarp. He had never seen it before. Its shape was unusual, almost elegant in a way that seemed out of place amidst the usual steel-and-rubber beasts of modern automobiles. He bent down to inspect it more closely and froze.

A small plaque was barely visible, etched with the words: The Walker Prototype, 1917—Electric Drive.

Max’s heart skipped a beat. The name Walker wasn’t familiar to him, but …

The Silent March

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:50 p.m.

Evelyn Harris stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the wide-brimmed hat atop her head. The reflection staring back at her wasn’t quite the woman she used to be. The face had the same sharp cheekbones, the same dark eyes, but beneath the surface, it had transformed. The soft, demure woman who once kept to the domestic sphere had been replaced by someone with fire in her heart, someone willing to stand up and fight.

The suffrage movement had grown in strength, its roots digging deeper into the soil of the country, but still, so many voices remained silent. As the 1917 protest loomed, Evelyn could hear the voices of doubt creeping into her mind. “What if they arrest you?” her mother’s voice echoed, heavy with worry. “What if they hurt you? What will happen to us?”

But Evelyn’s resolve had hardened. She had lost count of how many times …

The Price of Peace

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:48 p.m.

The train rumbled to a stop, its whistle piercing the stillness of the autumn air. Samuel Jenkins stepped off, the familiar creak of the platform beneath his boots sounding foreign now. He stood for a moment, scanning the town—his town.

It looked unchanged. The same cobbled streets, the same towering oak in the town square. But beneath the surface, everything was different. There was no flag in the town square this morning, no welcoming committee. Just the quiet hum of a place that had moved on without him.

He had come home to peace. A peace bought by the ink of treaties and the promises of politicians. The Treaty of Versailles had signed away the last hope of any real victory, leaving nothing but a hollow sense of finality. The war was over, but the scars it left behind would last a lifetime.

Samuel adjusted the weight of his pack, …

The Final Blade

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:46 p.m.

Rain tapped against the narrow cell window, a rhythmic reminder of time slipping away. Marcel Chevalier sat on the hard cot, his fingers tracing the edges of a worn photograph. It showed a young woman with a bright smile, her hand resting protectively on a boy’s shoulder. His son. A family now reduced to a memory.

The execution was set for dawn. The guillotine, an ancient relic in a modern age, waited in the courtyard. Marcel had heard the guards whisper earlier, their voices laced with unease. “The last one,” they said. “France doesn’t do this anymore.”

He thought about that. Being the last. A final punctuation mark in the story of a justice system that had severed countless lives. Would his death mean anything?

A knock broke his reverie. The chaplain entered, his face somber but kind. “Marcel,” he began gently, “have you considered what we spoke of yesterday? …

The Crossroads

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:26 p.m.

The morning sun streamed through the lace curtains, casting patterns on the kitchen table. Ruth Simmons sat with her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, the aroma doing little to calm the storm in her chest. On the table beside her, two letters lay side by side like rivals in a duel.

One was the flyer for tonight’s meeting at the church—a gathering of organizers planning the next steps for the Montgomery Bus Boycott. The other was a note slipped under her door last night, its scrawled warning still fresh in her mind: “Stay quiet, or your family pays.”

From the other room came the sound of her daughter, Clara, humming a tune as she braided her hair. Ruth’s husband, Marcus, had already left for the factory, unaware of the note or the weight it carried.

Ruth closed her eyes. She could see the faces of those who had …

The Foundation Stone

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:24 p.m.

Nathaniel Ward’s hands trembled as he unrolled the parchment. The stakes were higher than any column or arch he’d ever designed. This wasn’t just a monument—it was to be the monument. A symbol for a fledgling nation clawing its way through political strife and fragile alliances.

President Washington’s words echoed in his mind: “We need more than marble and mortar, Mr. Ward. We need something that will outlast the squabbles of men.”

It had been weeks since that meeting. Nathaniel had locked himself in his workshop, ignoring the jeers of rival architects who called him too young, too inexperienced. His neighbors in the muddy streets of the District muttered that he was chasing an impossible dream.

But Nathaniel couldn’t let their doubts weigh him down. He knew what this monument had to be. It had to whisper to the future, Remember what we built here, even if we falter.

He …

White Silence

hamed Jan. 17, 2025, 2:15 p.m.

The wind howled like a wolf circling its prey, rattling the windows of the small farmhouse. Snow piled higher by the hour, burying the fences and erasing the world beyond the walls. Inside, the Murphy family huddled close to the crackling fire.

Pa paced the room, his shadow flickering on the log walls. "If this keeps up, the barn’ll collapse under the weight," he muttered, pulling on his coat.

"You’re not going out there," Ma snapped, clutching her shawl. "You’ll freeze before you get halfway."

"I won’t lose the animals, Margaret."

"You’ll lose yourself. Then what’ll we do?"

Their eldest, Sarah, watched in silence, her little brother Timmy tucked under her arm. The boy’s face was pale, his breath shallow—he’d been coughing for days, and the cold made it worse.

"We could dig a tunnel," Sarah said suddenly.

Pa stopped pacing. "What?"

"A tunnel. To the barn. We could make …