Within reach, open at the flyleaf and placed on a velvet pillow, is a book, the Koran.

A little girl is crying. She is not in this room. Perhaps she’s next door. Or in the passage.

The woman’s head moves. Wearily. Emerges from the crook of her knees.

The woman is beautiful. At the crease of her left eye, a small scar narrows the place where the eyelids meet, lending a strange wariness to her gaze. Her plump, dry, pale lips are softly and slowly repeating the same word of prayer.

A second little girl starts crying. She seems closer than the first, probably just behind the door.

The woman removes her hand from the man’s chest. She stands up and leaves the room. Her absence doesn’t change a thing. The man still does not move. He continues to breathe silently, slowly.

The sound of the woman’s footsteps quiets the two children. She stays with them for some time, until the house and the world become mere shadows in their sleep; then she returns. In one hand, a small white bottle, in the other, the black prayer beads. She sits down next to the man, opens the bottle, leans over and administers two drops into his right eye, two into his left. Without letting go of her prayer beads. Without pausing in her telling of them.

The rays of the sun shine through the holes in the yellow and blue sky of the curtains, caressing the woman’s back and her shoulders as they continue to rock to the rhythm of the prayer beads passing between her fingers.

Far away, somewhere in the city, a bomb explodes. The violence destroys a few houses perhaps, a few dreams. There’s a counterattack. The retaliations tear through the heavy midday silence, shaking the window panes but not waking the children. For a moment-just two prayer beads-the woman’s shoulders stop moving. She puts the bottle of eyedrops in her pocket. Murmurs “Al-Qahhar.” Repeats “Al-Qahhar.” Repeats it each time the man takes a breath. And with every repetition, slips one of the prayer beads through her fingers.