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In the silent, ancient cliffs of Bamyan, where stone caves have witnessed centuries of life and death, an elderly couple sat in the dim glow of an oil lamp, preparing a simple yet unique meal. The woman, wearing a faded shawl, her hands roughened by years of labor and cold, placed a blackened pot on the clay stove and poured a handful of water into it. The man, sitting nearby, carefully cracked the eggs one by one and dropped them into the boiling water. The soft bubbling of the water broke the heavy silence of the cave. Once the eggs were hard-boiled, the woman gently removed them, peeled off the shells, and set them aside. Now it was time to prepare the dolma. With an old knife, the man hollowed out ripe, red tomatoes. The woman finely chopped some dried onions they had saved since last autumn and added them to the pot. The sweet aroma of frying onions began to fill the cool cave. She then grated the boiled eggs and mixed them with mashed chickpeas and a pinch of simple spices. Carefully, she stuffed the hollowed-out tomatoes with the filling and placed them back into the pot. Using the warm water left from boiling the eggs, she poured it gently over the dolma and covered the pot, letting everything simmer slowly. As the man brewed tea, he remembered how they used to make this dish during simple family celebrations—back when there was no war, and hunger did not gnaw at their hearts. When the fragrance of the cooked dolma filled the air, the woman lifted the pot from the fire. They sat together, eating their modest meal with softened, dry bread. Outside, the winter wind swept past the silent Buddha statues, but inside the cave, there was a warmth born of love and a lifetime shared.