A young lamb, no more than six months old, emerges from a moonlit alleyway in the oldest part of Jerusalem, its tiny legs moving swiftly as it bounds across the narrow cobblestone street, the streetlights casting a warm orange glow that highlights the moisture on its fur. The air is alive with the sound of distant calls to prayer, and the scent of cardamom and citrus hangs heavy in the air, carried by the gentle breeze that rustles the market stalls. As the lamb runs, its bleats rise in a joyful laugh, its little heart pounding with excitement, its tiny hooves barely making a sound on the stone pavement.