The Light in Her Window

Every evening at exactly 7 p.m., Hamza walked down the narrow lane that led to the small white house at the edge of the village. The villagers had grown used to the sight of him—an old man with a walking stick, holding a single red rose.

He would stop by the gate, look up at the window on the second floor, place the rose on the fence, and quietly walk away.

It had been forty years since she left, but Hamza never stopped coming.

---

Her name was Noor. She was the daughter of a schoolteacher, soft-spoken, kind, and full of laughter. Hamza had met her when they were barely adults—he, the shy carpenter’s apprentice, and she, the girl who came to his workshop asking for a wooden frame for her father’s reading glasses.

He had carved that frame with trembling hands, and she had thanked him with a smile that stayed in his heart forever.

Soon, Noor began visiting often—sometimes to buy little trinkets, sometimes just to talk. They would sit by the workshop door, sipping tea, talking about books and dreams.

When he finally found the courage to tell her he loved her, she smiled gently and said, “If love is real, Hamza, it will wait.”

He promised it would.

---

But fate had its own plan. Noor’s father was transferred to another city. She promised to return when she could, but months turned into years. They exchanged letters at first, then fewer, until one day they stopped altogether.

Hamza never heard from her again.

People told him to move on. “She’s probably married now,” they said. But he refused to believe it. Deep inside, something told him she hadn’t forgotten.

So he waited.

He never married. Never left the village. Every evening, he brought a rose to her house—the place where they used to meet—and left it by the gate.

At first, people laughed. Then they pitied him. And finally, they admired him. Because love like that was rare—the kind that didn’t fade with time, didn’t ask for proof, didn’t die in silence.

---

One winter morning, a letter arrived for Hamza. The envelope was yellowed and frayed, as if it had been lost for years. His hands trembled as he opened it.

The handwriting was familiar.

“My dearest Hamza,” it read,

If this letter reaches you, know that I never stopped loving you. I waited too—but my father’s illness kept us away, and when I tried to return, life took a turn I couldn’t change. Still, I never forgot the promise under the old oak tree: that love, if true, will wait beyond time. If I can, I’ll find my way back to that lane one day. And if not, know that my heart never left it.”

It was signed Noor, and dated 1987.

Hamza sat in silence for hours, tears slipping down his wrinkled face. She had written, but the letter had been lost in the mail—arriving nearly four decades too late.

Still, he smiled. Because even across time, she had remembered.

---

A month later, a small car stopped outside the same white house. A woman stepped out—gray-haired, leaning on a cane, her eyes searching the lane like a map of memories.

She saw him instantly.

Hamza was standing by the fence, a rose in hand, just as always.

Her lips parted in disbelief. “Hamza…”

He turned, his heart forgetting the years between them. For a moment, they were the same two souls beneath the oak tree—young, hopeful, faithful.

“Noor,” he whispered.

She smiled through tears. “You waited.”

“I promised,” he said simply.

They sat together by the fence as the sun dipped low. Time had changed their faces, but not their hearts.

The villagers watched from afar, whispering in awe. After forty years, the man with the rose had finally been seen by the woman in the window.

That night, the old white house glowed softly—its upstairs light shining for the first time in years.

And in that golden light, two faithful hearts finally found their way home.