A Rooftop Tradition

In a small village surrounded by gentle hills, summers were always hot. The sun burned bright all day, and the walls of the houses held the heat like stones from a fire. People tried to stay cool by sitting under trees, drinking cold water from clay pots, and fanning themselves with palm leaves.

But the real magic happened at night.

When the sun began to set, painting the sky with orange and pink colors, families climbed up to their rooftops. The rooftops were flat and wide, made from mud and wood, perfect for sleeping under the stars.

A boy named Hamid lived in this village. He was ten years old, with curious eyes and hair always messy from running around. During the day, he played with his friends in the orchards, picking ripe mulberries and apricots. They laughed, raced each other, and sometimes got scolded for climbing trees too high.

But Hamid’s favorite part of summer was sleeping on the roof.

At sunset, his mother and grandmother carried thin mattresses, pillows, and light blankets up the narrow stairs to the rooftop. The air felt cooler up there, and a gentle breeze carried the smell of flowers and dust.

Hamid lay down beside his grandmother, who always wore a scarf and smelled of rosewater. She loved to tell stories, and the stars were her favorite storytellers.

“Do you see that bright star?” she whispered, pointing at the sky. “That’s the lamp of a traveler who lost his way many, many years ago. He still lights it every night, hoping someone will guide him home.”

Hamid’s eyes grew wide. He turned his head and looked at another cluster of stars.

“And what about those stars over there?” he asked.

“That’s a caravan of merchants, carrying treasures of silk and spices,” his grandmother said softly. “They were caught in a storm and turned into stars so they could shine forever and show the way to other travelers.”

Above them, the sky sparkled with countless stars. Some twinkled like tiny lamps. Some looked like white dust scattered across a dark blue cloth.

Sometimes, the wind would blow softly, rustling the sheets. Hamid listened to the distant bark of dogs, the quiet songs of crickets, and the occasional call of a night bird. Far away, he could hear the murmuring river that ran beside the village.

Slowly, his eyes would grow heavy. His grandmother’s voice became softer and softer until it blended with the warm night breeze. Hamid felt safe, wrapped in his blanket, under a roof of stars.

He dreamed of caravans crossing golden deserts, of brave travelers searching for lost cities, and of magical lamps that shone like stars in the dark.

When he woke up in the morning, the sun was already climbing over the hills, turning the sky pale gold. Birds chirped everywhere. His grandmother was beside him, smiling, already rolling up the bedding.

“Another day, Hamid,” she said. “Another night will come, and the stars will have new stories to tell.”

Hamid sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked around at the village rooftops. Everywhere, people were stretching, greeting each other, and getting ready for a new day.

He knew that, when night returned, he’d be back on the roof, listening to the whispers of the stars. And in those moments, with the summer breeze on his face and the endless sky above, he felt like the luckiest boy in the world.

“Nowadays, in rural areas, people still sleep on the rooftops during summer nights, enjoying peaceful and pleasant sleep. But in the cities, houses have become smaller and closer together, and people no longer feel the same desire to sleep on the rooftops.”

If you finished reading and liked it, don’t forget to hit like and share a wonderful comment