Diyar, a young writer with calloused fingers from years spent working in his family’s bakery, received the news in a flurry of flour and disbelief. The Nûs Prize, the most prestigious award in Kurdish short story writing, was his.

For years, Diyar had poured his heart into stories after the bakery closed, weaving tales of his Kurdish village, its resilient people, and the bittersweet scent of fresh bread. He’d submit them to literary magazines, his hopes often returning with the stale scent of rejection. But he persevered, fueled by the encouragement of his grandmother, Nana, who’d regale him with folklore under the starlit sky.

This year, his story, “Nanawa’s Bread,” a poignant tale about a young baker determined to revive his village’s forgotten recipe, had resonated with the judges. Nana, frail but beaming, watched the announcement on a grainy TV, tears welling in her eyes. Diyar rushed to embrace her, the weight of the award a comforting warmth against his chest.