The old woman sat in her weathered armchair, its floral fabric faded by decades of sunlight streaming through the window. Her name was Shirin, but to her granddaughter Laleh, she was simply Maman Bozorg. The aroma of brewed saffron tea lingered in the air, mingling with the faint scent of rosewater from the sweets they had shared earlier.

Outside, the city of Tehran hummed with its usual nighttime symphony—distant car horns, the faint wail of a street vendor, and the wind whispering through the leaves of the sycamore trees lining their quiet lane. But inside, there was silence.

Laleh sat cross-legged on the rug by her grandmother’s feet, cradling a small ceramic nightingale in her hands. “Tell me again about Rostam,” she whispered.

Shirin smiled, her face a map of lines etched by time and sorrow. Her voice, though soft, carried the weight of generations. “Rostam,” she began, “was not just a warrior. He was a man of love, of heartbreak, of impossible choices. His story was carved into the mountains of this land, like yours will one day be.”

Laleh leaned closer. “But what about his last night?”

Shirin’s eyes twinkled, and for a moment, she seemed to look beyond the walls of their apartment, into a world only she could see. “Ah, his last night... It is said that he sat by the fire, weary from a lifetime of battles. He had nothing left to conquer, no enemies to slay. He only wanted peace.”

Her voice trembled, and Laleh noticed the nightingale in her grandmother’s lap—a tiny clockwork bird Shirin always kept close. With a flick of her thumb, Shirin wound it up. The bird whirred to life, its beak opening and closing as it sang a haunting melody.

“They say,” Shirin continued, her words weaving into the nightingale’s song, “that a magical bird came to him. It perched on his shoulder and sang every story of his life—the glories, the betrayals, the heartbreaks. He listened to it until dawn, and when the last note faded, so did he.”

Laleh stared at the nightingale, entranced by its song. “Do you think he was lonely?”

Shirin reached out and placed a trembling hand on her granddaughter’s cheek. “No, my azizam. When you hear your life sung back to you, you are never alone. You carry everyone you’ve ever loved in those notes.”

The bird’s melody slowed, its clockwork winding down. Shirin’s hand slipped back into her lap, her breathing shallow but steady. Laleh felt a lump rise in her throat. “Maman Bozorg?”

But Shirin didn’t answer. Her eyes were closed, her face serene. The nightingale let out one final, trembling note before falling silent.

Laleh sat frozen, the weight of her grandmother’s hand lingering on her cheek. The quiet of the room pressed down on her like a heavy quilt, but outside, the city hummed on.

In the stillness, Laleh wound the bird again. It sang, its melody carrying stories she would tell for the rest of her life.