The story began with the first explosion, then the second, and then that endless barrage of relentless shelling. With each raid, I felt something break inside me, until my hearing betrayed me. Today, I live in a world of blurred sounds; the doctors told me I've lost 60% of my hearing, leaving me with only 40% to struggle to understand what's happening around me. Distant sounds have become unintelligible whispers, and cries for help echo in my ears like a faint reverberation. We've lost everything. My house, built with years of toil, is now rubble, and my work, which was my livelihood and my pride, vanished with the smoke of the shells. We were displaced once, twice, ten times... each time leaving a piece of our souls behind, until we ended up here, under the tent. The tent isn't a home; it's merely a thin veil between us and the cold night and the harshness of reality. In the tent, I try to focus on the faces around me, reading their lips to compensate for what my ears have lost. Sometimes I cry silently, not only because I can't hear well, but because the outside world doesn't hear our pain, we who are trapped in these tents. I am Hiba, who once had a full life, and today has nothing but my patience and what remains of my sense of hearing, which I use to try to catch any news that promises peace, hoping that one day I will hear the sound of returning to a place where the earth doesn't tremble and where sound is never lost.