"Damn it." He muttered.
Haifa, 17 Ahad Ham Street, third floor
Yossi Ben-David sat by the window, looking at the street below.
Haifa's evenings are beautiful, with the sun setting over the western sea, painting the sky an orange-red, and the ships in the port lighting their lamps, slowly heading out. He has been sitting by this window for three days, watching the sea for three days, the ships for three days, the sun for three days.
His wife was cooking in the kitchen. The knife chopped on the cutting board, rhythmically. His son was in the next room doing homework, the pencil scratching on paper, softly. He listened to these sounds, feeling unreal. Eleven years he hadn't heard these sounds. In those eleven years, he heard the clang of iron doors shutting, the clack of the jail guard's shoes in the corridor, and the coughing of the Kurdish old man in the next cell, who coughed for three years, coughed to death.
The doorbell rang.
