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Mashki Jan lived in a small cottage by the village with her daughter Zahra. Zahra had a mental disability and couldn't speak. Her only way to communicate was her innocent gaze and simple smile.

The war had run out of Zahra's calming medicine. At night, as bombs fell in the distance, Mashki Jan held her daughter in her arms and sang lullabies. Zahra couldn't speak, but she rested her head on her mother's shoulder, and her eyes said: "I'm here. Don't go."

Weeks passed. No medicine. Little food. But every morning, Zahra's silent look told her mother: "We have another day. You're still here."

Mashki Jan had no one. Only a daughter whose smile spoke all the words in the world.