Her back's curve, emanating from the darkness of her solitary room into the stairwell, cast a beautiful awe into my soul. Her slow, elderly, majestic steps made me gently bend, extending my hand as if I feared it might break. Then, spontaneously, I gently patted the arch of her forward-leaning back. When she lifted her face to mine, she said: "Good morning." Her face lit up my spirit, I replied: "May your morning be prosperous," not mentioning that the time had already passed noon.

I wanted to pass through the desolate building entrance, but she stood before me in her own private, tender paradise. A desire overcame me to sidestep her to fully appreciate the view. I noticed her shopping bag in hand and asked: "Where are you going?" She replied: "To buy some bread." I said: "I'll buy it for you and come back quickly." She said: "You are tired."

With fervent gentleness, I snatched the bag from her hand, forgetting to ask how many loaves she wanted. I bought five. I found her struggling softly to enter her room. When her light figure disappeared into the room, I rushed to her and found myself before her closed door. I knocked, but she didn't answer. I knocked again and her voice came: "Come in," deep as if she'd just awoken from a heavenly dream.

I put down the bread for her and she asked: "What is this?" I replied: "The bread you asked for." She thanked me. As I was about to leave, she said: "The money is under the paper." I replied: "I won't take it. Consider me your son." She replied, "You are more than a son to me. It's enough that you brought the bread. It's as if you knew that I wouldn't be able to leave my room or my bed. I had wished you'd bring it for me. You're a good lad, son." I asked her, "Didn't you leave today?" She smiled, letting me gaze at the silver strands escaping from beneath her headscarf. She remained silent. I thought to myself: old age does much. She asked: "Why did you skip work today?" I said, "I didn't tell you I skipped work." She replied, "I know, and I know you won't say you skipped work to bring the bread."

I looked at her white strands and felt a surge of affection for her as if I agreed with her. I said, "Yes, for you." And I didn't say it was Friday. She said, "You are generous," pointed to the Quran, and asked for it. I knew she couldn't read, but she smiled, kissed the Quran, embraced it, and opened it before her. She bent over it, gazing into the Quran as if I wasn't there, as if I didn't exist. I stood by her side, inhaling the fragrance of heavenly bliss."