Life was perfectly calm within Thuraya’s walls—calm like the two of them together. Two rooms and a living space in a modest apartment in the serene neighborhood of El-Manial. In one corner of the living room sat Grandma’s Singer sewing machine, perched on a wooden table with four tiny wheels. She would roll it out in front of the large couch whenever she wished to sew, then wheel it back and cover it with a cloth she had embroidered herself. That very couch, bought by Grandpa Abdullah at the beginning of their marriage, was still precious to her. She would reupholster it but never let it go—“It still carries his scent,” she always told Nada.

She placed it by a wide northern balcony with a breeze “that revives the soul.” The neighbors envied them for it; some would even drop by to sit there, sipping mint tea grown in the very balcony garden, enjoying the cool breeze infused with the scent of her plants.

And with the breeze came the sun, a loyal visitor to Thuraya’s home—dropping in for brief hours at noon, purifying the rooms, warming the house, and amplifying the warmth of her love.