Rana's brush hovered over the luminous seeds, her hazel eyes reflecting not just the seventy martyrs but the unbroken lineage of resistance they embodied. The scent of phosphorus faded, replaced by the damp earth of her grandmother's garden in Beit Hanoun—where lemon trees grew defiantly through bullet-pocked walls. She dipped her brush into pooled rainwater, sketching Dr. Khalil Al-Hayya's silhouette not as a politician, but as a root-gnarled olive tree rising from ashes. Around him, names of the fallen—Hamam, Jehad—bloomed into jasmine vines that wove through his branches, each leaf etched with verses from Surat Al-Asr: *"By time, indeed mankind is in loss, except those who believe and do righteous deeds..."* Thunder rumbled, synchronizing with distant ambulance sirens, as her fingers traced the bark where new buds formed—tiny, luminous compasses pointing toward Gaza's dawn. <image>A digital painting of an ancient olive tree rising from ashes, its bran...