They said it was safe—
the skies were clear, the paths re-paved,
flags fluttered in a choreographed breeze,
tourist brochures dusted off
with a smile and a script.
But beneath the gloss of painted peace,
a storm curled its fists.
He came for a break,
she came to breathe—
they both came with dreams
stitched into backpacks and
sunset-colored plans.
And now, look—
her hands tremble over blood-wet sleeves,
his heartbeat stolen by a silence too thick
to scream through.
Mountains bowed their heads,
the pines stood still in prayer,
as the land they loved
betrayed them
with a bullet.
Pretence—
that cruel, cunning cloak
draped across an occupied wound.
A ribbon tied on a bleeding valley
to make the world look away.
“Come, all is well,”
they said with cameras rolling.
But peace is not a lie
you rehearse for television.
Peace is felt—
in the safety of strangers,
in the freedom to sleep
without checking exits,
in the laughter of children
that doesn’t flinch
at the crack of echoing metal.
Dr. Bilal Ahmad Bhat did not stay silent.
He stood, voice strong through the fog of grief:
“We condemn the cowardice,
this assault on innocence.
This is not progress.
This is pain wrapped in protocol.”
And from the corridors of Thynk Unlimited,
a message was etched into history:
No normalcy is real if it’s built over fear.
No calm is true if blood feeds its roots.
No truth is sacred unless it defends the innocent.
So write this down—
not in headlines that vanish,
but in memory,
in mourning,
in resistance:
The cost of the mask
was measured in lives.
And those who dare to speak it—
will not let the world forget.
