Leila is cutting Hossein and his companions' hair, while Agha Ghorban's sons look on happily.

In the shade of Agha Ghorban’s courtyard, the afternoon settles like a warm cloth over the bricks. The air carries the scent of mint tea cooling in tall glasses and jasmine blooming along the wall. Leila moves with a quiet rhythm, a small satchel of combs and scissors slung over her shoulder, her scarf catching a breeze and fluttering like a sail. Hossein sits on a sturdy chair borrowed from the porch, shoulders loosened by a sigh that shows he’s ready for a little ceremony. Leila drapes a pale cloth across him, gently tucking it at the nape of his neck, as if preparing him for a page in a well-loved book. The first snip comes and goes, clean and precise, leaving a line of light along his forehead as if a new chapter is opening. Beside Hossein, his companions watch with eager eyes—the brothers of the house, the friends who have shared every game and mischief since they were little. Leila’s hands move with confidence learned from practice and patience earned from listening. She combs Hossein’s hair back from his ears, catches a stubborn curl, and shapes it with a quiet artistry that seems almost musical. The clink of the scissors is a crisp note in a melody of laughter. “Hold still, Hossein,” Leila murmurs, and there is a soft amusement in her voice, as if she’s coaxing a shy bird to perch on her finger. He does as told, a little grin tugging at the corners of his lips. Then Leila begins on the others—the companions—one by one. They shuffle into the shade, their feet dusty