Between the stone faces of Bayon and the silent fields where bones still whisper, a country emerges from morning mist, carrying its ghosts with quiet dignity. Ancient temples breathe in jungle air, while motorbikes weave through Phnom Penh streets, vendors call out with rhythmic precision, and children play along the Tonlé Sap’s edge History sits heavy on tired shoulders, not a burden but a testament to survival’s extraordinary art. The Mekong flows, indifferent to sorrow. Cambodia does not ask ...