Amal sat on the worn cushion by the window, her hands trembling as they twisted the edges of her headscarf. Outside, the village hummed with an uneasy tension, its narrow streets alive with whispers of the deal. “Two hundred of ours,” the grocer had muttered that morning, “for four of theirs.”

Her heart thudded against her ribs like a trapped bird. Somewhere, her son Omar—her boy who had been nineteen when he was taken—might be standing in a sunlit yard, his wrists still raw from the chains. Or maybe he wasn’t. The thought stung like a needle.

She traced the lines of her palm absently, as if the answer might be etched there. Omar had been the eldest, her rock. She remembered the summer evenings when he’d taught his little brothers to kick a soccer ball in the dusty yard, his laughter carrying over the sound of distant gunfire.

It had been four years since the soldiers stormed their home and dragged him away, accusing him of throwing stones, of defiance. Four years of silence, save for the one letter smuggled to her through layers of whispers and danger. “I am strong, Mama,” he had written. “I will come home.”

And now, maybe he would.

The old TV in the corner flickered with grainy images of buses. Soldiers stood with rifles slung over their shoulders, their faces blank masks. Amal squinted at the screen, willing it to show her his face. Her neighbors had crowded around their own sets, holding their breaths for sons, husbands, fathers.

She pressed her fingers against the cool glass of the windowpane, her eyes fixed on the road. Every sound—a motorbike, a child’s shout, the bark of a stray dog—set her nerves alight. What would she say if he walked through that door? Would she recognize him? Would he recognize her, lined and grayed by years of waiting?

The front door creaked, and her youngest, Noura, poked her head in. “Mama,” she whispered, her wide eyes brimming with tears.

“What is it?” Amal’s voice cracked.

“They’re saying...” Noura hesitated, her voice breaking. “Some names are not on the list.”

Amal felt the air leave her lungs. She swayed, her knees buckling, but she caught herself on the windowsill. Not on the list.

The room closed in, the walls pressing against her chest. She tried to picture Omar as he had been—strong, tall, his dark eyes full of life. But the image was slipping away, replaced by shadows, by a hollow ache.

The TV buzzed with static, and a reporter’s voice cut through the room. “The prisoners have been handed over. Families are gathering at the exchange point.”

Amal sank to the floor, her hands gripping the carpet. She closed her eyes and whispered a prayer, her words spilling out in a desperate stream. “Ya Allah, bring him home. Let me see him. Just once.”

A knock at the door startled her, and she froze. Noura gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

The knock came again, firm and deliberate. Amal rose slowly, her legs shaking. She crossed the room, each step a lifetime, and opened the door.

Standing there was a young man, his face thinner, his beard fuller, but his eyes—the same dark, determined eyes—pierced through her.

“Mama,” Omar said, his voice hoarse.

Amal’s breath caught, and the world tilted. She reached for him, her hands trembling as they cupped his face. “Omar,” she whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks.

He held her tightly, his body warm and solid against hers. For a moment, the world outside fell away—the conflict, the pain, the years lost.

But as the village erupted in cheers and mourning, Amal knew this moment was fleeting. The war had taken so much, and it would take more. Yet for now, she clung to her son, the fragility of hope cradled in her arms.