You wake beneath the white ceiling of a hospital room. Your mother’s last kiss has made its home on your forehead, where her lips once rested. You remember your father, how he held your hands so that you could paint the first leaf of a tree green. Do you remember how you stayed awake for several nights, trying to harmonize the contrast between the red flower on her chest and her black chador?
Now look at this artwork of yours. Which part of her chador has become black? You could not do it, no. You could not harmonize its contrast. You turned it blue. Look at the chain around her neck. You did not draw its flower correctly.
You turn your gaze away, and the last image before your eyes is of human bodies falling one by one like raindrops to the ground. No. You are mistaken. The raindrops abandoned the sky, but these fall with such weight that they never rise again, just like you.
As though this is their final way of proving they have held tightly to their land.
The sound of boom… boom… boom… boom returns to your ears. Each one heavier than the last. This is the last sound you hear.
“Beheshteh Ahmadi.” The teacher’s voice.
Your classmate nudges your elbow firmly. “Beheshteh, they’re calling your name. Stand up.”
Smiling brightly, she rises from the last chair in the classroom and walks toward the blackboard. The teacher places a small certificate of appreciation into her hands, decorated with shades of purple and pink.
“Dear Beheshteh, your artwork was truly beautiful.”
“Thank you, teacher.”
“But for an eight-year-old, creating something with such delicacy and such a strong idea is unusual.”
“Miss, Beheshteh has already finished the entire Shahnameh. She reads a lot of social studies books too. This is nothing for her.”
“You truly have talent, Beheshteh dear. Keep going.”
The applause of her classmates fills the room, and she witnesses the first fruit of several sleepless nights. The only second-grade student who managed to win the Certificate for Best Artwork of the Year. She smooths the corners of the certificate with both hands, afraid they might wrinkle before she can show it to her parents.
The school bell rings.
You head to language class. On the way, you notice a child polishing shoes. You lower your head and wish him success in his work. Language class ends, and now in the dim light of eight in the evening, you begin your journey home.
Loud sounds reach your ears. Not one voice, not even several. A vast crowd.
“This is the final battle. Pahlavi will return.”
You search your memory for the name. Where had you read about Pahlavi in Iran’s history books? Yes—the Shah of Iran. You repeat it to yourself.
The crowd chants in unison. They hold on to one another.
“We are not one person. We are thousands.”
You keep turning their words over in your mind, arranging them like broken glass.
Then you remember a conversation from that morning.
“Today?”
“Yeah. Everyone will probably come out around eight tonight.”
“Should we let Beheshteh go to language class?”
I’ll make sure she’s home before anything starts.I’ll pick her up so she’ll be home before the protests begin.”
Yes. Your mother was supposed to come. You should not have gone to language class. You should not have.
Boom… boom… boom… boom. Shouting rises.
“They’re shooting!”
“Take cover! That’s live fire!”
Boom… boom… boom… boom. The crowd breaks apart. People run in every direction.
Someone lifts you into their arms, shouting over the chaos.
“Little girl, where are your parents? What are you doing here?”
Your sketch slips from your hands. It falls, and feet pass over it. The face in your drawing darkens under dust and steps.
“You managed to bring black into it too,” you think faintly.
Boom… boom… boom and boom.
The man hides you behind a metal pole.
“Run! Everyone run!”
Another burst. The man collapses onto your drawing. Now your artwork carries red again.
Your certificate falls beside him.
“No… I have to show it to my mom and dad,” you scream.
Another shot.
A thought passes through you: he could not save you.
A bullet strikes. You do not understand where. Chest, head, leg. Only the impact. Only the fall.
Now your body becomes part of the ground beneath.
A woman’s voice cuts through the noise:
“She’s just a child! What has she done?”
Boom… Another strike… Again boom…
Your vision fades.
Then silence.
And then—
You open your eyes again.
You are lying in a hospital bed.
Your mother and father stand beside you. Your mother kisses your forehead, and the mark of that kiss settles there as it has always belonged.
Your father holds your certificate tightly, repeating:
“You said you would show it to us… we saw it… we saw it, my daughter…”
His hands are red. Blood or something else, you do not know.
“My daughter… we are here,” your mother whispers.
You think of your artwork again. You remember staying awake for nights, trying to balance the red flower on her chest with her black chador. Which part became black? You could not do it. You turned it blue.
The chain around her neck. The flower you missed.
Your wound is red now. Not black. It was never black. It only wanted to remain alive inside you.
That is why you are still here.
Suspended in the thin space between life and memory.
Your mother kisses your forehead again.
Your father cries:
“This is her achievement… her certificate… nothing can take it from her.”
More bodies arrive through the hospital doors.
And as your soul rises, you think of your eight-year-old self who lived eighty years. A spirit that refuses to end where the body ends.
And still, somewhere beyond the hospital doors, the crowd continues:
“This is the final battle.”
