Lusimba had changed.
Khisa could see it even from the veranda where he sat, cane resting against his knee, the morning sun warming his shoulders. Fields stretched farther than they ever had before, neat rows of grain bending gently in the wind, irrigation channels catching light like thin silver veins across the earth.
Farmers moved steadily, confidently, not in the hurried desperation of survival, but with the rhythm of people planning for seasons yet to come.
This land had once been a village.
Barely three hundred souls, scraping by on stubborn hope and shared labor. No walls. No banners. No future certain enough to name.
Now it was the backbone of Nuri.
Khisa exhaled slowly, letting the memory settle. Every stone laid, every harvest secured... it had been built by hands that believed when belief was the only currency they had.
He shifted, leaning a little heavier on the cane than he liked.
