Under the ancient walnut tree in their courtyard, Pari sat cross-legged on the woven rug, her fingers busy shelling pistachios. The autumn breeze tugged at her silk scarf, now faded like the memories she shared with her husband, Abbas. He sat across from her, silent as always, staring into the distance as if the mountains of their village held answers he couldn’t quite reach.

Fifty years of marriage lay between them like a jagged path—rocky, weathered, yet unbreakable. They had fought wars, not just with the world but with each other, sometimes over trivial things—a misplaced slipper, a forgotten errand. But there were darker days, too, ones that neither spoke of anymore. The loss of their son in the revolution. The hunger during years of drought. The betrayal of whispered promises when tempers flared. In those moments, hatred had crept in, sharp and cold.

But so had love, fierce and eternal.

Pari glanced at Abbas, her heart tightening as she remembered the man who once could make her laugh just by raising an eyebrow. He had aged; his once-strong frame now hunched, his dark hair turned gray. Yet, he was still her Abbas, the man who had carried her through so many storms, whether or not he realized it. She knew he felt the same, though he would never say it out loud. Not in words, at least.

"I told you the nuts are still green," Abbas muttered suddenly, his voice gruff.

Pari shot him a look. "And I told you to keep your advice to yourself. I know what I’m doing."

He grumbled something under his breath, and she ignored it, as she had learned to over the years. She chuckled to herself, though. He was right—the nuts were green. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of saying so.

The silence between them returned, but this time it was not uncomfortable. It was the silence of two people who had lived too long in each other’s shadow to need constant conversation. Theirs was a bond forged through fire and time, chipped and scarred but never broken.

"You’re impossible," Abbas said after a long pause, shaking his head. His lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile she’d seen from him in days.

"And you’re a stubborn old goat," Pari replied, unable to suppress her own smile.

He chuckled—a low, gravelly sound that felt like home.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the courtyard, Abbas reached across the rug, his rough hand covering hers. No words were exchanged. None were needed. In that single gesture was every argument, every tear, every laugh, and every tender moment they had ever shared. It was their way of saying what neither could put into words: that beneath the layers of resentment and irritation, their love was something eternal, as steady and enduring as the mountains surrounding their village.

Carved in stone!