Since childhood, we had been nicknamed "the twins," even though we were not. If one set aside our physical resemblance, the differences between Mersedeh and me were clear. She is kind-hearted, warm, and resilient in the face of difficulties. I, however, think I am not quite like that.
After putting the last book back on the shelf, I collapsed onto the bed from sheer exhaustion and told Mersedeh, "I'm sleepy and not hungry for dinner. Tell Mother I won't eat." Without a word, Mersedeh left the room and went downstairs.
All the furniture had been arranged, and the new curtains decorated the hall. The house had become cozy and magnificent, and life returned to its normal rhythm. Only Mersedeh's room curtain remained; she suggested replacing it with an autumn-colored louvered drape. Father agreed, and the next evening, our room was completed with it.
I sat down, gazing at the autumn view framed by the drape, and exclaimed, "The window must be closed, the latches fastened, so that autumn does not steal the memory of love."
Mersedeh said, "Madam poet, but I fear the window across from us; I am afraid it will carry you away."
I replied, "Seize the moment, and experience love through the verses! Opposite me, there is only a wall, a wall."
She stood and said, "Even so, I must firmly close the window, lest love enter from across."
I grew irritated and said, "Then I must share my solitude with the mirror. Do not let my faded flower become the laughingstock of the garden."
She said, "Don't be silly! I must protect you from the storm's attack."
I asked, "And when you leave, what will I hold onto?"
She took out a book, handed it to me, and said, "With this."
We laughed and embraced each other. I said, "Joking aside… I am sad that you are leaving."
She said, "Time passes like the wind before you even notice. I'm not leaving forever; we'll be together during Eid and summer."
I said, "I wish you would take me with you."
"You know Father's opinion," she replied. "Until you finish high school, you're not allowed to leave the country."
Feeling down, I said, "How long until I graduate? I'm only starting the fifth grade this year. It will take forever for these two years to pass."
She teased, "Do you need several years to finish a single grade?"
My eyes fell on the window across the alley. The flowers in the pot had changed, and I still hadn't seen the room's occupant. I said, "I'm so curious to know who lives in that room."
"Suppose you find out—what difference would it make?" she asked.
"Nothing, I'm just curious," I said.
She drew back the blinds completely and fixed her gaze on the window. "Remember, that's our neighbor's house, and soon we'll have to interact with them. Don't do anything to cause regret. Perhaps they'll be as kind and warm-hearted as Motherjun's family—which I hope they are. Mother will be very lonely after we leave, and you'll soon be busy with school and your studies."
I asked, "What do you mean by 'regret'?"
She looked at me deeply and said, "I mean that if the room's occupant were a young man instead of a girl, the closeness of these two windows could lead to trouble. Do you understand now? You're new in this neighborhood, and undoubtedly you'll attract the neighbors' attention. Like before, maintain your dignity and comportment, and earn the respect of others."
"I understand," I said.
She took a deep breath. "I don't know if I'll make new friends there," she admitted.
"You'll meet Fereydoun's friends from India within two years, and gradually you'll make friends of your own. Don't worry," I reassured her.
"I wish I could receive a letter from you every day. Let's make a pact to write to each other daily. How does that sound?"
"I'd love to, but I'm afraid schoolwork will get in the way," I said.
After a moment's thought, she said, "Very well, then we'll write two letters a week instead. How about that?"
"That's fine, I'll do it," I replied.
"Don't forget to write everything, down to the smallest detail," she said.
"Okay, I'll write whatever I can remember," I promised.
She winked. "And don't forget the window across from ours."
"You talk as if you already know who lives in that room," I said.
She pulled the blind closed. "I have my guesses, but I'm not certain," she said.
At the sound of Mother calling us for breakfast, we both hurried down the stairs.
That morning, I got out of bed later than Mersedeh. I stood by the window, inhaling deeply the cool morning breeze. I closed my eyes and took another deep breath. On that delightful morning, I made a small wish—the kind a mind in that moment can make: that when I opened my eyes, I would see the occupant of the room across the alley. A smile spread across my lips at the thought.
When I opened my eyes, I noticed two large, dark eyes fixed on me. A relatively young man was staring at me. In an instant, our gazes met, and I turned away from the window, feeling a flush of embarrassment. Yet a great excitement surged within me. I felt like an explorer discovering a hidden treasure. My wish had come true—I had uncovered the secret of the neighbor's room.
I hurried downstairs. At the breakfast table, Mersedeh noticed my elation and asked, "What's the matter? Why are you so happy? Your face is glowing." I said nothing, but discreetly winked so that others wouldn't notice. She didn't understand and shrugged indifferently.
When we were alone, I said, "I finally discovered who lives in that room."
"Really? Who is it?" she asked.
"A relatively young man," I replied.
She gave me a surprised look. "How did you figure that out?"
"He came to the window and looked at me," I said.
"I see… so now you're satisfied?"
I took a deep breath. "Yes, my curiosity is finally appeased."
She placed her hand on my shoulder and said, "Also, accept my condolences."
"Condolences?" I asked.
"Well, you thought a girl lived there and were planning to befriend her. Now your plan has hit a snag, and you'll have to think of another friend," she teased.
I laughed, "Who knows?"
Her eyes widened in surprise. "So you want to be friends with him?"
I smiled. "Is that how well you know me?"
This time, she exhaled deeply and said, "You put my mind at ease. For a moment, I thought you might try to capture the neighbor boy's heart."
At that moment, I was certain I wouldn't.
Later, when I entered Mersedeh's room to close her suitcases, the neighbor's curtain was drawn completely, swaying only occasionally as the wind lifted it. Mersedeh glanced at the window and asked, "What does he look like?" I tried to remember his face. It was hard to visualize him clearly. In that fleeting moment, I hadn't really seen him. "Overall… he's not particularly handsome," I said.
"Did you even say hello?" she asked.
"No, there was no need," I replied.
I nodded in agreement. As long as Mersedeh and I were in the room, no one appeared at the window. I was more curious than Mersedeh. I don't know why, but I wanted to see him once more—perhaps to look more closely at his face and see if my impression that he wasn't handsome was correct.
Noticing my curiosity, Mersedeh said, "Mina, put childish thoughts aside and stay away from the window. Did you forget what I told you?"
"Don't worry, I won't repeat it," I replied, "but whatever you say only makes me more curious."
She smiled, and together we continued gathering the clothes.
Near sunset, I was watering the garden. While tending to the flowerbeds in front of the house, a car drove past and stopped by the large gate. I saw him step out of the car. As he locked it, he glanced at me. Hastily, I retreated into the yard, away from his gaze. This time too, I couldn't get a clear look at his face. I turned off the tap and went to my room. His lamp's light was visible behind the blinds. The room was warm and stuffy. I thought to myself, I'll open the window but won't pull back the blinds.
With that intention, I opened the window. No one was there. I thought, So… the room is empty? Immediately, my mind argued with itself: Why does this matter to me? Didn't I promise Mersedeh I wouldn't go near this window? I must be careful; the line between chastity and scandal is no more than a step. Guard yourself, or you may fall into that abyss.
Shivering at the thought of disgrace, I hurriedly left the room.
Mother and Mersedeh had gone shopping, and until their return, I occupied myself with household chores. When they came back, I felt renewed energy and joyfully unpacked the shopping. Mersedeh went upstairs to change clothes. When she came down, her face bore clear irritation. She sat beside me and said, "Why did you open the window? Didn't you promise to stay away from it?"
"I promised, and I am keeping it!" I said. "If you noticed, the window is open, but the blind is still down. I opened it just to let the air in, and honestly, I didn't see anyone."
She poured herself a glass of water and said, "I saw, but I wanted to make sure." A smile replaced her anger.
I said, "If you're worried, I could set up Fereydoun's room for us instead?"
She thought for a moment and said, "No, that's not necessary. It's enough that you have the will and don't go near it." In her words, I sensed a trace of doubt.
She was worried that I might not control my curiosity and approach that window. I laughed and said, "Mersedeh, our windows are like the ones in that poem by Akhavan Sales."
She looked at me, curious. "Which poem?"
I said:
We, like two windows, facing each other,
Aware of every quarrel between us.
Every day, greetings, questions, laughter,
Every day, a promise of the next day.
Mersedeh smiled and continued the verse:
Now my heart is broken and weary,
Because one of the windows is closed.
No enchanting love, no magical moon,
Cursed be the journey, for all it has done, it has done.
She continued, "Dear sister, the boy in the house across the alley will get used to seeing this window closed every day. No greetings, no questions, no laughter."
I said, "Is there anyone stricter than you?"
She looked at me in such a way that I feared she might shout at me.
"This isn't strictness," she said. "It's a warning. If I'm convinced that you're taking my words as a joke, I'll have to tell Mother the story about the window."
"You know, you look even more beautiful when you get angry. My dear traveler, my good sister, why won't you admit that Mina will keep her promise? If I say anything, it's only in jest. Relax your frown and don't be upset. Now tell me, are you going tonight to say goodbye to friends and relatives?"
She glanced at her watch without realizing it and said, "Tomorrow night. Last night Father asked if I wanted him to throw a party for me—I refused. I said schools will reopen in a week or two, and you should be our priority. Use the money for the party for Mina instead."
I said, "You always think of me. Thank you."
Her face brightened. "I only have you. Of course I must think of you. I want to leave knowing that I can be at ease."
"Rest assured," I said. "I won't do anything to bring shame on the family."
She took my hand. "I know, my proud and strong sister, that you will not let your pride break before a man, and you will not fall to the temptations of the devil. You have always shown that you are a wall, firm and unyielding, not easy to cross. I want you to stay that way, focused on your studies as always. Remember, only two years remain. You must graduate with excellent marks, as you always have. I don't mean to say I've helped you over the years, but if you face difficulties, you can seek Shideh's help. She is not only our cousin but also my brother's wife. We know she is kind and generous and will never withhold her assistance."
I bowed before her, covering my eyes, and said, "It shall be done, whatever you command."
She laughed heartily and said, "Let me use your own verse and say:
One day,
One hour,
I wanted to say 'I love you.'
But now I shout:
Mina! My sister!
I love you…"
I took her hand and seated her on the chair. "Then remember this final verse as well:
One day,
One hour,
I wanted to say: I adore you.
But, oh hope of my soul! In that moment my mind soared higher than the fountains,
Richer than life itself,
And brimming with hope.
I felt as if you had read the secret of my gaze.
But now, without you, I feel the full weight of solitude.
And drop by drop, my love,
With all my being,
I condense into one word and say:
'Mersedeh! My sister! Without you, I see myself alone and forsaken.
Whenever you stand before the mirror, seek Mina's reflection, and do not forget her.'
Night had fallen, and I was alone in my room, reading a book. Across from me, the window was closed and dark. Unconsciously, I began to write:
In the cold and dark alleys of my city,
Thousands of lively, pleasant sounds
Pass with thousands of tired, bare footsteps.
In the empty, cold streets of my city,
Sound alone waits.
Memories have fallen asleep,
And I am still waiting, behind the closed window,
Waiting.
I do not know why I have grown attached to this window,
An attachment that makes me steal glances
And then wrestle with myself.
I think a friendship has formed
Between me and the window.
I see autumn on the glass of its room,
For I have never seen a smile,
Nor a sign of spring and friendship
In the eyes of its occupant.
If there is any affection, it exists only
Between the two windows opened to one another.
The doorbell rang, and I left my desk. At that hour, we were not expecting anyone. As I descended the stairs, my parents had already gone to the courtyard to greet the guests. Mersedeh said, "The neighbors have come to get acquainted. I don't have the patience to meet them. Please, if you can, take care of the introductions." She didn't wait for my reply and returned to her room. I ran a hand through my hair and went to welcome them.
First, Mr. and Mrs. Ghodsi entered, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Rezaqi, and then the Davari family. During the introductions, I realized that Mr. and Mrs. Ghodsi were the neighbors whose window faced our room. Both were retired educators, and Mr. Ghodsi worked in a private company after retirement. Mr. and Mrs. Rezaqi were the neighbors across the alley, and the Davaris lived to our left.
The warmth and friendliness of the neighbors reassured us that buying this house had been the right choice. We sat together and talked until midnight. Each family shared stories of their children. We learned that Mr. Ghodsi had two sons and a daughter—one son was a lawyer, the other a teacher, and the daughter had married last year.
Mr. Davari was a pharmacist, running a local pharmacy, and they had a son in elementary school. Mr. and Mrs. Rezaqi both worked—he was a carpet merchant, and she was an employee at the Ministry of Health. They also had two children, both attending elementary school.
My father spoke of our children and then nodded toward me: "Our daughter must start at the local high school this year. Unfortunately, she hasn't registered yet, and we don't know much about which school she should attend."
Mr. Ghodsi smiled: "The high school isn't far, and fortunately, it's a good one. My son Kaveh has been teaching there for about four years, for both boys and girls. If you like, we can help arrange your daughter's registration."
My mother thanked him: "We'll handle it ourselves. If we run into any trouble, we'll let you know."
Mrs. Ghodsi replied warmly: "Trouble? We'd be delighted to help. That's what neighbors are for, isn't it?"
Mersedeh and I exchanged glances. She gave me a faint smile before looking away.
After the guests had left, my father, content and full of satisfaction from the neighbors' kindness, went to bed. I returned to my room. Mersedeh teased, "I heard everything you talked about. Seems like avoiding the window is useless."
"Why?" I asked.
She laughed. "Didn't you hear? Mr. Ghodsi's son is a teacher at the very high school where you'll be registering. If your acquaintance through the closed window is delayed, inevitably you two will meet anyway."
I laughed and said, "Well, if that's the case, may I pull up the shutter and free myself from this prison?"
She got up and pulled back the shutter herself. "I think there's no harm. One must always struggle with oneself, whether the window is open or closed."
From my bed, I could see a corner of the sky. Part of it was clear, and the stars twinkled. I said, "Mersedeh, I really want to go up to the rooftop and look at the sky. I want to see if the sky here is as beautiful as it was at our old home."
A soft melody floated from the neighbor's room. I wished I could hear it more clearly. Sitting at the edge of my bed, I listened intently. Mersedeh asked, "Why are you sitting there?"
"Shh! Listen! What a beautiful tune; I've never heard anything like this."
She picked up a small radio from the desk and began to adjust its dial. But the music wasn't coming from the radio.
"Don't tire yourself," I said. "I don't think it's the radio."
She put the radio back in its place and said, "I've fallen asleep anyway."
I got up and moved closer to the window. "I really want to hear this melody one more time."
Someone was reciting poetry, accompanied by soft music. Mersedeh said, "Maybe it's a poetry recital program."
"First, it's not Saturday tonight, and those recitals are on Saturdays. And second, this isn't Mehdi Soheili's voice," I replied.
She didn't answer. I realized she had fallen asleep. The sound stopped; I went back to bed. But as soon as I closed my eyes, the same voice and the same melody returned to my ears. I thought to myself, "It must be a recording, but I wish it were louder so I could hear it clearly."
With that dreamy hope of listening to the poetry, I finally drifted into sleep.