On a rainy winter day in Paris, I visited the grave of Sadegh Hedayat, the renowned avant-garde Iranian writer, at Père Lachaise Cemetery. As I stood among the bare trees and watched the black birds take flight, Hedayat’s haunting words from The Blind Owl echoed in my mind: "In life, there are wounds that, like a leprosy, gnaw at the soul in solitude and slowly eat away at it."