"In the courtyard, no wall stood between one home and another — only shared ground, wide enough to hold laughter, tears, and the bread broken between hands."
The courtyard was more than a space between two houses; it was the stage of daily life for both Dalal's and Nadia's families.
In the evenings, the fathers and older brothers would gather there, coffee cups in hand, sitting around an old wooden table. The sounds of playing cards and checkers mingled with laughter, occasional teasing, and the kind of arguments that always ended in smiles and reconciliation — before the night quietly folded itself over Bethlehem.
Mornings, however, painted a different scene. The courtyard came alive with the voices of mothers and neighbors. They spread woven mats, chopped vegetables, and kneaded dough, their conversations weaving together the joys and sorrows of the neighborhood. The aroma of frying onions mixed with the scent of fresh thyme, and the clatter of cooking pots echoed like a familiar rhythm — a music of ordinary life.
In the midst of it all were Dalal and Nadia — two barefoot little girls chasing each other across the sun-warmed ground, sharing dolls made from rags, hiding behind colorful lines of laundry, and giggling beneath the old fig tree as if the courtyard itself were a magic maze.
No one ever spoke of religion, no one asked whose feast came first — for in the courtyard, joy was one, and home was one.
As the days passed, the courtyard became a living memory, its soil carrying the imprints of small feet and the whispers of laughter. It was there that the first chapter of their friendship was written — a bond untouched by difference, shaped only by the gentle borders of childhood innocence.