The House With the Red Gate

It is a saying that an old woman lives in the house with the red gate on the edge of Buraq Street. No one remembers when she arrived, or if she ever did. The house smells of cinnamon and old pages, and the wind chimes only sound when no one’s looking.

Some claim she’s the sister of a woman who vanished during the monsoons in ’82. Others whisper she’s only a caretaker, watching over Noor’s home—though no one remembers Noor. There are no photos, no birth records, no stories told at family gatherings. Yet Noor’s name lingers like steam on glass, slipping into conversations as if it belongs.

Children leave small offerings at the red gate—pressed wildflowers, folded paper birds—though they’re not quite sure why. A little boy once asked his father who lived there, and the father just said, "Someone we missed before we knew we should."

Inside, the woman with silver-threaded hair keeps a room untouched. A bed that’s never been slept in. A journal filled with dreams someone else must have dreamt. Paintings that depict people who don’t exist, places never found on a map. She tells visitors, “Noor loved sunflowers,” though they never ask.

Once a year, on the longest day, the town gathers and lights lanterns. No one calls it a festival. No one says who it’s for. But every flame carries the hush of a name never spoken out loud, a love never known, and the presence of someone who was never really here—yet shaped them all.