The sun had been up for hours, but it still burned like it was just getting started. August in Israel. The kind of heat that makes anything melt in your palms. The kind of heat that dares you to leave the house and then punishes you for it.
Chaya sat at the bus stop already sweating through her long navy skirt. A rag, once white, now gray, was clutched in her hand, damp at the edges. She dabbed at her forehead, then her upper lip, then went back to holding her Tehillim closed in her lap. She hadn’t opened it. Not once. The words felt too hot, too heavy today.
A shimmer of air and sandals signaled someone approaching. Chaya glanced up.
A woman in cutoff jeans and a faded Bring Them Home shirt strode toward the bus stop. Sunglasses, curls piled in a careless bun, a canvas messenger bag slung across her chest. She didn’t say “shalom,” didn’t nod, didn’t even glance at the bench.
Instead, she walked straight up to the glass panel of the shelter and stood there staring. Not at the schedule. Not at the bus times. Just. . . the wall.
Chaya squinted.
The woman’s fingers touched a corner of something on the glass. A sticker. It had started to peel in the heat, curling like paper left too close to the stove. The type of sticker you see everywhere these days. White border, army emblem, a boy’s name in blue letters and gold stars around it. לזכר רועי בן נורית, נפל בעזה, חורף 2023. In memory of Roee, son of Nurit, who fell in Gaza, winter 2023.
Memorial sticker.
The woman peeled it off...
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