The sun rose over Kabul, painting the sky in soft hues of pink and orange. Mohammad whistled as he carried a loaf of bread for his family, enjoying the fresh morning air. He loved this time of day, when the city was still peaceful and quiet.

But as he turned the corner to his street, his smile faded. His home was gone. In its place, a heap of bricks and dust, the result of a night-time bombing. Mohammad felt a cold shock in his chest. Where was his family?

He ran towards the ruins, hoping to find them alive. He searched for his brother Ali, who always woke up early to play. He looked for his sister Fatima, who loved to read stories in her bed. He called for his mother, who made the best breakfasts in the world.

But there was no answer. No sign of life. Only silence and rubble.

Mohammad collapsed on the ground, sobbing uncontrollably. He felt the world spin around him, the noise of the city fading into a distant hum. He couldn't believe it. His family was gone.

He remembered his father, who died at the hands of the Taliban when he was a child. He remembered his mother, who worked hard to keep them safe and happy. He remembered his dreams of becoming a doctor, of helping people in need.

But now, he had nothing. No family, no home, no money. He was alone, in a country torn by war. What was he going to do?