Image by Elizabeth Tr. Armstrong
HOF — I was born an outsider in an unforgiving place. I’ve spent my whole life searching — for a way out, for a way in, for a people to call my own. But most days, I feel like an orphan.
My father was one too, though he never said it. He and his siblings carried the same wound — foreign blood, foreign manners — but easier times. They found families, careers, and the illusion of belonging.
Continue reading “We, the Orphans of the Signal”
Roumani Line 