There’s a young man who doesn’t speak. A car bomb exploded too close to his home and he’s been deaf ever since, a companion explains. He sits on the steps leading down to the open carriage door. He’s dressed all in white, which glistens in the midday sun, as do the soft, round features of his face, which carry a serene smile as he stares out at Macedonia rushing by. I think for a minute that he looks like a cherub. I think for a minute that I know why he is smiling.
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