The record player has become my secret confessor. This evening, it's Billie Holiday. There's a particular crackle in the vinyl that speaks of another life, another time. Her voice holds a kind of sorrow that feels universal, a language that needs no translation. It's a strange comfort, listening to the heartache of a country that is not my own, and yet... somehow, in this quiet apartment, for three minutes at a time, it feels like it could be.