Widow was carrying firewood… until she saw a man fallen with a baby in his arms
But before the answers came, there was silence—the silence of a man who did not speak, but breathed inside that old clay-and-wood house, where the walls held more prayers than conversations.
Selma laid the stranger on the straw mat that had once belonged to her husband. It was the only corner that still carried his scent, but she did not hesitate. She placed the worn-out body there, adjusted his head with the cleanest cloth she had, and covered his feet with a blanket long forgotten by everyone except the dust.
The baby she laid in a woven basket lined with floral fabric she had kept from the days when she used to sew for others.
She filled a pot with water from the well, heated it in a clay pan, and with a cloth soaked in the warm water, began to clean the man’s feet. They were cracked, covered with road dust, marked by a journey without rest. Every time she wiped them, Selma whispered soft words, as if speaking to God and to her own fears at the same time.
The child did not cry. He slept like one who trusted, as if certain those arms had been the right place to be.
