The woman sits up slowly. Stares desperately at the man. Puts her hand back on his chest. “If you can breathe, you must be able to hold your breath, surely? Hold it!” Pushing her hair back behind her shoulders, she repeats, “Hold it, just once!” and again bends her ear to his mouth. She listens. She hears him. He is breathing.

In despair, she mutters, “I can’t take it anymore.”

With an angry sigh, she suddenly stands up and repeats, shouting: “I can’t take it anymore…” Then more dejected: “Reciting the names of God, over and over from dusk till dawn, I just can’t take it!” She moves a few steps closer to the photo, without looking at it. “It’s been sixteen days…” She hesitates. “No…,” counting on her fingers, unsure.

Confused, she turns around, returns to her spot, and glances at the open page of the Koran. Checks. “Sixteen days… so today it’s the sixteenth name of God that I’m supposed to chant. Al-Qahhar, the Dominant. Yes, that’s right, that is the sixteenth name…” Thoughtful: “Sixteen days!” She takes a step back. “Sixteen days that I’ve been existing in time with your breath.” Hostile: “Sixteen days that I’ve been breathing with you!” She stares at the man. “Look, I breathe just like you!” She takes a deep breath in, exhales it laboriously. In time with him. “Even without my hand on your chest, I still breathe like you.” She bends over him. “And even when I’m not near you, I still breathe in time with you.” She backs away from him. “Do you hear me?” She starts shouting “Al-Qahhar,” and telling the prayer beads again, still to the same rhythm. She walks out of the room. We hear her shouting, “Al-Qahhar, Al-Qahhar…” in the passage and beyond…

“Al-Qahhar…” moves away.

“Al-Qahhar…” becomes faint.

“Al…” Imperceptible.