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Fordow. House of Ghosts
23 Khordad 1404 (June 13, 2025)
Morning arrived in the village without a dawn. The light seemed to seep through the dusty shutters like water through cracks in a clay wall.
Mrs. Yezdi’s house was like a jewelry box someone had forgotten to close. It stood deep in a garden where half-withered pomegranate trees intertwined their branches, creating a patterned dome beneath which time flowed differently—slower, thicker. The red clay walls breathed warmth even at night, and the windows, narrow and tall, looked out at the world with wise nearsightedness.
When we entered, we were enveloped by the smell of saffron and old paper. It was the scent of memory.
Nilufar Yezdi met us on the threshold. She was a small, dry woman, resembling a meerkat that had survived winter. Her gray hair was neatly tucked under a scarf, and her face, etched with wrinkles, glowed with that peculiar, soft joy found in people who have long stopped expecting good news.
But there was no mourning in her. There was humility transformed into hospitality. Dressed in a simple dark dress, she smiled at us as if we had arrived for a celebration, not fled from bombardment.
“Welcome,” her voice was quiet but clear, like a silver bell. “Come in, come in. Amirkhan-agha, Zahra-jan. And you, girls. Such beauties!”
She embraced Zeynab, then me. Her hands were dry and warm, like parchment.
“Call me Aunt Nilu,” she said, smiling. “To my son’s friends, I am always Aunt Nilu.”
I looked at Mom. Zahra stood with her eyes lowered, as if afraid the walls would start bleeding if she looked up. Dad froze at the threshold, gripping the car keys until his knuckles turned white. The soap opera continued. We walked into a house that should have hated us, but instead, it offered us slippers.
“You’ve come a long way,” Aunt Nilu fussed, seating us at a low table on the rug. “You must eat. I made baghali polo. And baked barbari. Fresh, still hot.”
On the table were dishes worthy of a Shah. Rice with fava beans and dill, steaming gently, golden flatbreads, small bowls of rose petal jam.
“You shouldn’t have troubled yourself, Mrs. Yezdi,” Dad’s voice sounded hoarse, as if he were swallowing broken glass. “You must have been cooking all night.”
“Nonsense,” she waved it off, pouring tea. “I couldn’t sleep anyway. I was listening to the radio. They say things are troubling in the world. But here, in Abyaneh, it’s always quiet. Here, war is something you see on TV, not something that falls on your head.”
She probably didn’t know. She listened to the radio but heard only what she wanted to hear. Or perhaps the radio here caught a different wave—a wave from the past, where everything was still fine.
We ate in silence. The food was delicious, homemade, real. But every bite stuck in my throat. I watched Dad. He ate mechanically, tasting nothing. He sat at the table of the woman whose son had died because of him. He ate her bread. He drank her tea.
If hell exists, this is what it looks like: a cozy living room, the smell of dill, and a kind old woman serving you seconds, not knowing you are a monster.
Zeynab, having eaten her fill, began to nod off.
“Go, dear, lie down,” Aunt Nilu pointed to a door in the next room. “The bed is made. Sleep.”
When Zeynab left, I stood up and walked around the room. It was a museum. Photographs hung on the walls. Black and white, color, faded. Here was a young man in a military uniform, with a mustache and a rifle. He smiled that brave, foolish smile with which they went to war with Iraq, thinking they’d be back in a month.
“Is that her husband?” I whispered to Mom.
Zahra walked over, stood beside me. She didn’t look at the photo; she looked through it.
“Yes. He died in eighty-two. During the assault on Khorramshahr. Rustam was three years old then.”
And here was Rustam. A boy with a ball. A teenager with a book. A student in glasses. A young scientist in a white coat surrounded by instruments. And the last photo—he stands in the mountains, squinting at the sun, alive, intelligent, with that same ironic half-smile I remembered.
“Hello, Uncle Rustam,” I thought. “Sorry we barged in. But my parents decided your house is the safest place for their children. Appreciate the irony.”
Dad sat with his back to the wall of photographs. He couldn’t look at them. His hand trembled when he lifted his glass of tea. I saw it. Aunt Nilu didn’t.
“We have to go,” he said abruptly, standing up. “Mrs. Yezdi… Aunt Nilu. Thank you for everything.”
“Already?” the hostess threw up her hands. “You haven’t even finished your tea properly.”
“Duty,” he answered briefly. “Please, look after the girls. We… we will try to return as soon as possible.”
“Of course, Amirkhan-agha. Don’t worry. It will be like staying with their own grandmother.”
They went out into the yard. Dawn was already painting the sky the color of a bruise—lilac-gray. Somewhere far away, beyond the horizon, it was probably still thundering, but here it was quiet. Mom hugged me. Hard, until my ribs hurt. She smelled of road dust and village tangerines.
“Take care of your sister, Nasrin. You’re the oldest.”
“I know, Mom.”
She looked me in the eye. In her gaze was such an abyss of despair and love that I felt scared. She was saying goodbye. For real.
“There, in the bag…” she stumbled. “In the side pocket of the backpack. There are documents. And money.”
She kissed me on the forehead—a dry, hot kiss. Dad just squeezed my shoulder.
“Don’t be foolish,” he said. “Listen to Aunt Nilu. And don’t go on the internet. There isn’t any anyway.”
“Dad,” I wanted to say something biting, something in my style, but the words got stuck. “Take care of Mom.”
He nodded. And in that nod was a promise he couldn’t keep.
They got into the car. The Dena Plus, covered in dust, looked like a hearse for hopes. They didn’t look at each other. They looked ahead, at the road leading them back to hell.
And I watched them and thought: they didn’t look like husband and wife, but like random fellow travelers on a train going one way, knowing they would never arrive together.
The car moved. The crunch of tires on gravel sounded like a sigh.
They drove a few dozen meters and suddenly stopped. The brake lights flared red, like two inflamed eyes. The car stood there for a minute. Two. The engine ran, puffing little clouds of exhaust into the morning air.
I held my breath. Maybe they changed their minds? Maybe Dad will get out now, say “To hell with it all,” and stay?.. Or maybe he wanted to get out, hug us one more time. Or maybe he just couldn’t force himself to press the gas. But duty won. As always.
The brake lights went out. The car jerked and, picking up speed, tore away, leaving behind a trail of dust that slowly settled on the road like a curtain after a tragedy.
Yes, they left. The murderer and the traitor went to save the world they themselves had destroyed. And I was left standing at the gate. Aunt Nilu came up, draped a shawl over my shoulders.
“Let’s go, child,” she said softly. “You need to sleep. Morning is wiser than evening.”
I followed her. Into the house of ghosts. Into the house of dates. Into the house where I was destined to survive the end of the world. I lay down on the sofa in the living room, beneath the photograph of smiling Rustam, and fell into a sleep, black and bottomless as an old oil well. And in my dream, Rustam stepped down from the photo and sat beside me. He said nothing. He just looked at me with that same ironic half-smile. As if he knew something I didn’t know.
Didn’t know then.