“Don’t be frightened, darling. I’m here.”

“Why are you shouting? You’re scaring me, Mummy,” weeps the little girl. The mother reassures her: “I wasn’t shouting. I was talking to your father.”

They walk away from the door.

“Why are you calling my father Al-Qahhar? Is he cross?”

“No, but he will be if we disturb him.”

The little girl falls silent.

It is now completely dark.

And, as the woman predicted, the mullah has not come.

She returns with a hurricane lamp. Puts it on the ground near the man’s head, and takes the bottle of eyedrops out of her pocket. Gently, she administers the drops. One, two. One, two. Then leaves the room and comes back with a sheet and a small plastic basin. She removes the dirty sheet covering the man’s legs. Washes his belly, his feet, his genitals. Once this is done she covers her man with a clean sheet, checks the gaps between the drips of sugar-salt solution and leaves, taking the lamp with her.

Everything is dark once more. For a long time.

At dawn, as the hoarse voice of the mullah calls the faithful to prayer, the sound of dragging feet can be heard in the passage. They approach the room, move away, then come back. The door opens. The woman enters. She looks at the man. Her man. He is still there, in the same position. But his eyes draw her attention. She takes a step forward. His eyes are closed. The woman moves nearer. Another step. Silently. Then two. She looks at him. Can’t see clearly. She isn’t sure. She backs out of the room. Less than five breaths later she is back with the hurricane lamp. His eyes are still closed. She collapses onto the floor. “Are you sleeping?!” Her trembling hand moves to the man’s chest. He is breathing. “Yes… you’re sleeping!” she shouts. Looks around the room for someone so she can say it again: “He’s sleeping!”