Siyar looked up, tears in his eyes. "You aren't just a singer, Grandfather. You are the memory of us."
He began to pluck a slow, rhythmic melody. His voice, though weathered like ancient parchment, rose clear and steady: “Ez bilbilê nav bilbilan...” Siyar looked up, tears in his eyes
When the last note faded into the mountain air, there was a long silence. No one cheered; they simply breathed together, the weight of their history felt in that single moment of music. Siyar looked up