?”
Saman and Maryam sat on the old library steps, two steaming cups of tea in their hands. The scent of cinnamon mingled with the evening breeze. Maryam’s gaze was fixed on the dancing leaves across the bench, while Saman curled his fingers around his cup, savoring its warmth. There was no need to fill the empty space with words, no fear of judgment. Sometimes Maryam would sigh, and Saman would smile, as if he understood that sigh too. The distant clinking of spoons against cups played like background music to their silence. Saman thought of his mother’s notebook—some connections, it seemed, needed no words, like prayers that linger in the heart. When their tea was finished, Maryam said softly, “I liked your tea without sugar today.” And to Saman, that simple sentence was more beautiful than any long conversation.
