My mother's gentle call—soft yet heavy with the weariness of years—reaches me. I descend the stairs, and my eyes fall upon the mound of bundled belongings. Boxes stand neatly stacked, each filled and sealed, ready for the move. The hollow echo of our voices lingers in the emptied room, where every trace of our life has been packed away. Soon, we must leave this house—the house that has guarded the memories of my childhood.
I pause, sorrow pressing on my chest, and ask myself: Where have those golden days gone—the days of simplicity and sincerity? Where have the warm smiles and the innocent mischief of childhood gone? When I am gone, will another girl stay awake upon this rooftop, counting the stars? Will another scatter seeds for the old pigeon that waits each morning on the antenna? Will anyone else feel pity for the neighbor's ailing cat?
A tear slips down my cheek, unashamed, unwilling to hide.
Mother turns her gaze from me, lowers her head beneath a heavy sorrow, and quietly surveys the room one last time, as if afraid something might have been forgotten. Then, with a faint voice weighted by regret, she whispers, "What a pity," and leaves the room.
I counted the steps from my room to the kitchen with my own feet. Until that moment, I had never known exactly how many there were. On the wall, there was nothing but an unframed poster of a few fruits. With a shout of "Ya Allah," several men entered the yard and began carrying the wrapped furniture out, one by one. I stood there, stunned and bewildered, wishing for a miracle, watching silently as the work continued without me.
Stepping out of the house, I came across a truck at the end of the alley, ready to take the furniture away. My gaze drifted to my room's window—a window facing the street, my eyes tracing the shallow stream below. A thin ribbon of water flowed quietly. The streetlight remained lit, its feeble glow falling on the mulberry branches. How many nights had I studied beneath this lamp, listening to the song of an empty tin rolling in the water? My plain wooden window was closed, its termite-eaten frame bidding me farewell. I could almost hear the wind weaving through the branches, whispering a soft farewell.
Sixteen years of memories were buried by that window as I stepped onto a path I did not know. With the weight of a hand on my shoulder, I cast my last glance at the window and fixed my eyes on my sister, Mersedeh. She smiled gently and said, "I know… leaving this house is never easy. You, Fereydoun, and I were born here, and we grew up here. But our new home isn't so bad either. Its window opens to the street as well, a narrow, quiet alley."
"From that window, you can watch the sunrise and the sunset. Come on, let's go—Fereydoun is waiting for us. Our car should move ahead of the truck to show the way."
The last carton was loaded into the truck, and all the loads were secured tightly with ropes. The workers got in, but the driver, just to be sure, checked the ropes one more time before climbing in himself.
Neighbors had gathered at the end of the alley to see us off. The elderly street sweeper pushed his cart into the alley and approached us, asking, "You're leaving?" Father took his hand and said, "Yes, it's time to go." The old man shook his head with regret, saying, "What a pity… we will miss you." Father responded with more than a smile: "For thirty years you've worked hard for us, isn't that enough?" Ali Agha removed his gloves and said, "You were the oldest family in this neighborhood. We had all grown accustomed to you." This time, Mother spoke up: "It's hard for us to leave too, but there's no choice. We must go."
Hands intertwined, tears ran down cheeks, making the farewell heavier and more sorrowful. The driver honked the horn to announce departure. We got in and began to move, waving to the neighbors as we left. Houses seemed to take on a new shape, and I felt as if I was seeing the shops for the first time. The excitement of seeing them again made me glance back. Only Ali Agha remained, emptying his cart of garbage. We all stayed silent until we were completely out of our neighborhood.
We stopped at a red light. Father said, "Thirty years passed so quickly." Mother looked at him but said nothing. Father continued, "When we first set foot in this neighborhood, only two houses had been built; the rest was desert and fields." Mother replied, "We gave our youth and our life to make this place flourish."
Father said, "It was fate that kept us here for thirty years, but it wasn't all bad… Haven't you forgotten how peaceful it was? At night, when the caretaker came and said, 'Tonight you can fill your cistern,' we would be overjoyed." Mother sighed at the memory, saying, "Yes… it was as if God had opened all the doors of His mercy. Sleep would flee from our eyes, and we would wake up, waiting for the water. May God bless Mr. Mahmoudi—he would bring a glass and a lantern and sit by the water channel, checking the water every few minutes. If it was clear, he would open the cistern; if muddy, he would wait until it cleared."
Father added, "The sound of water pouring into the cistern was more delightful than any melody." Mersedeh said, "You went through so much hardship." Mother nodded several times, affirming her. But Father continued, "Those days had their own charm. I remember when guests arrived, the caretaker would gather a basket of eggplants and tomatoes to offer them; sometimes cucumbers arrived by sunset. Life was simple and honest. But as people grew more 'civilized,' life became more difficult. With the progress of the world, simplicity and sincerity faded. Now, only memories of those days remain. We have grown old, the world has grown young, and from our old neighbors, only we and the Mahmoudi family remain. After her husband passed, Motherjun couldn't bring herself to sell his belongings; she stayed, and Mahmoud and Fereydoun grew up together there."
Mother said, "Motherjun wasn't just a neighbor; she was closer to me than my own sister. I remember when Fereydoun was born, my sister came to take care of me, but she couldn't manage due to the lack of resources. Yet Motherjun, even though Mahmoud was only two months old, came and said, 'Don't worry, I will take care of you until you can stand and manage on your own.' She would come in the morning and leave by noon. She did so much for me. I will never forget her kindness as long as I live."
Father laughed and said, "Tell your daughters how much you nagged me and made excuses!" Mother, slightly offended, asked, "I nagged? I left all my family for you. When they saw the barren desert you brought me to, they complained. But I said, wherever my husband wants to be, I am willing, and with that, I cut ties with them."
Father said, "I'm joking, don't be upset. You've always been good; there's no doubt about that. In those days, with the little income I had, I had to buy that house. Anything was better than being tenants or wandering from house to house. Thank God, we built it together and lived our lives. Now, we are seeing the results of our endurance. We have bought a large house. Our son and daughter are heading to India. What more could we want? I am content and grateful to God."
Mother, saying softly, "Alhamdulillah," fell silent.
"That's when we decided to buy this house. Let's not deny it—it's a good house. It's spacious and two stories high. I never imagined, even in my dreams, that I could buy a house like this under such circumstances. The location is upscale, quiet, and peaceful. Have you seen it?"
Mersedeh said, "Yes, I've seen it, and I must say it's beautiful, but Mina hasn't seen it yet."
Father replied, "There's no time left; Mina will like it too. I gave you the room facing the alley so that my poet-daughter can watch the sunrise and sunset. Once she settles in, she'll see how lovely and serene it is."
The car entered a wide street. Unconsciously, I stuck my head out of the window, which surprised Father. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"I want to smell it," I said, "to see if it still carries the scent of our old neighborhood."
Everyone laughed. Mersedeh asked, "Does a neighborhood even have a smell to recognize?"
Embarrassed, I lowered my head and stayed silent.
A little further, the car stopped in front of a beautiful house. Fereydoun was already there, waiting for us, and the truck had halted too. I could hardly believe that this beautiful house belonged to us. As both doors of the gate swung open, I caught my first glimpse of the yard. Gardens lined both sides, and the paved courtyard gleamed from cleanliness. Two short white lamps stood atop the gateposts, and along the sidewalk in front of the house, there was another garden bed with a few weeping willows planted inside.
Looking around more closely, I realized that similar garden beds ran along the entire sidewalk. The houses were luxurious and modern. I thought to myself, Father was right. It really is a quiet and peaceful place; at this hour, not a single passerby can be seen.
I wasn't sure whether to call it an alley or a street—it was wide enough for two cars to pass side by side. I asked Mersedeh, and she cheerfully explained that our house was on a side street.
The house itself was separated from the courtyard by four marble steps, and next to the last step, a beautifully carved marble planter held short, blooming roses.
When I entered the house, I was even more astonished. The floor of the hall was covered with parquet, and a stylish set of sofas, along with a dining table and chairs, adorned the room. Tall chandeliers with countless crystal drops multiplied the hall's beauty. Seizing a moment, I asked Fereydoun, "Is all of this ours?" He smiled and said, "Everything you see belongs to us."
The houses were incomparable. The hall was spacious and connected to the upper floor by a spiral staircase.
On the left side of the hall, a narrow corridor led to two rooms facing each other, which opened into a large kitchen. Each room had its own bathroom and toilet. I was lost in admiration when Fereydoun, slightly annoyed, said, "Take your time to look around, but come help."
With Mersedeh, we moved the items that belonged upstairs. The upper floor mirrored the lower one, except the kitchen was separated from the hall by a decorative partition. My room and Mersedeh's were large, each with a built-in wardrobe matching the room's colors.
Before doing anything else, I ran to the window and opened it. Our window faced a narrow alley, directly opposite the neighbor's window. The wind had blown half of the neighbor's curtain into the alley, and a flowerpot full of blooms peeked through the glass. I guessed it was the girl's room. I told Mersedeh, "It would be nice to meet the daughter of this house. With you and Fereydoun leaving, I'll really be alone."
Mersedeh's gaze lingered on the neighbor's window, and she said, "If your guess is correct and that room belongs to the neighbor's daughter, I'm sure with the closeness of these two windows you'll make a friend soon. Don't worry."
The workers carried our beds upstairs and, following Mersedeh's taste, placed each in its proper spot.
The sadness I had felt until a short while ago vanished. The charm of the new environment and house breathed new life into my spirit. It was like a rebirth. Everything seemed fresh—even our familiar old furniture. We postponed arranging it and went downstairs to help Mother. She wanted me to make tea for the workers. Finding the samovar among the boxes was easy, as Mersedeh had neatly labeled each one. Once I plugged in the samovar, everything else became effortless, and the tea was ready.
With the arrival of my aunt's family, work gained momentum. The men, especially Fereydoun, worked with renewed enthusiasm.
Shideh, my cousin, was Fereydoun's fiancée and future wife. Her presence completely erased Fereydoun's fatigue, and he moved the furniture with even greater determination. Fereydoun had just over two years left of his studies. He was studying sociology at Delhi University. After finishing high school and completing his military service, he took the entrance exam but didn't succeed. He then tried his luck in India and, fortunately, succeeded. Before leaving, he got engaged to Shideh, planning to marry her after his studies. Father wanted Shideh to come with us, but she refused.
She said, "It will be difficult for Fereydoun to take on both his responsibilities and his studies." That was why Fereydoun went alone. A few days later, Mersedeh would accompany him to India for the medical entrance exams. Only I would remain, with two years of studies ahead, after which I would join Mersedeh.
I am two years younger than Mersedeh, yet in height and build, we are perfectly matched. Our extraordinary resemblance always astonishes others; without the beauty mark near my lip, it is often difficult to tell us apart. Sometimes, to confuse our friends, Mersedeh leaves a mark by her lip, and we enter a gathering together. The presence of two Minas at the same time inevitably confuses people, and more often than not, Mersedeh is mistakenly called Mina.
My elderly uncle, due to his age, makes this mistake more than anyone else and often calls me Mersedeh.