The White Lamb

The sun had barely risen above the old stone houses of the village when Navasard opened his eyes. The wind hummed softly outside his window, carrying with it the faint scent of apricot blossoms and the song of sparrows perched on the garden wall. He sat up slowly, his bones creaking like old wood, and stared at the single photograph on his bedside table.

It was a picture of three people—himself, his younger brother, and a woman with warm eyes and a kind smile. His wife. Years had passed since she left this world, taken by an illness that withered her body but never her spirit. Not long after, a tragic car accident took his brother and sister-in-law too, leaving their only son, little Shahab, in Navasard’s care.

The boy had been only ten. Scared. Lost. But Navasard, childless himself, loved him like his own. He raised Shahab with gentle patience, gave him stories in the night, warm soup in the cold, and guidance when the boy's heart was broken by the world.

Shahab had always been bright. Sharp-minded and full of dreams too large for their small village. When the time came, Navasard sent him to college in the city, and then to university. The money was never enough. So, piece by piece, he sold what he had—land, tools, even the old copper samovar that had belonged to his grandfather. All for Shahab.

He never complained. His joy was in Shahab's letters, the few he received. Simple updates: "Uncle, my classes are going well." "Uncle, I’ve started an internship." "Uncle, I miss your pomegranates."

Years passed. A decade. And though visits were rare, Navasard never once doubted that his boy would return. That one day, he would see him at the door again, taller, wiser, successful. A man.

That day came suddenly.

Navasard was tending to his small orchard, pruning the apricot tree that Shahab once climbed as a boy, when a neighbor came rushing in.

“Navasard agha! I just heard from the postman—your Shahab is coming back today! Driving up from the city!”

The old man dropped his shears.

“Today?” he asked, as if the word didn’t quite land.

“Yes! They say he’s done with everything—job and all! Maybe he’s coming home for good.”

The neighbor smiled and patted his back, but Navasard was already halfway to the house, heart thudding like a boy’s.

He washed his hands and changed into his best shirt—the white one with the collar still stiff from his wife's ironing, years ago. Then he walked to the small pen behind his home, where a white lamb stood, chewing calmly. Navasard had kept the lamb aside for a special occasion. He had whispered to it many times while feeding it, “When Shahab comes back, my son, you’ll be the feast.”

His hands trembled as he said a soft prayer and prepared the knife. His back ached, but his heart surged with purpose. After the slaughter, he washed, lit incense, and cleaned the front yard. Then, from his garden, he picked the ripest figs, the juiciest pomegranates, and three of the biggest apricots. He placed them carefully in a basket, just as his wife used to.

By noon, everything was ready.

He waited under the shade of the mulberry tree, eyes fixed on the road that wound into the village.

Cars came and went. Children ran past. The sun began to dip lower.

Finally, a sleek black car approached from the far bend. It stopped near the old oak gate.

Navasard stood up, smiling broadly.

The door opened, and Shahab stepped out. Tall. Confident. Dressed in a tailored suit. There was a woman beside him, her heels clicking on the gravel, her eyes behind dark sunglasses.

“Shahab jan!” Navasard called out, stepping forward.

Shahab glanced up, paused—and gave a tight smile. He leaned toward the woman and whispered something. She nodded.

He walked a few steps toward the gate but didn’t come in.

“Uncle, I just came to say I’m passing through. I can’t stay—I’ve got meetings back in the city. But I wanted to drop by.”

“Come inside, my son. I’ve prepared food, fruits—”

“I can’t. I really can’t,” Shahab said quickly, already backing away. “I just thought I’d see the house… from outside.”

“But—just for a moment?”

“I’ll come back next time. Promise. Tell everyone I said hello.”

And just like that, he turned. The car doors shut, and the engine roared to life.

Navasard stood frozen. The white lamb, now cooked and covered, sat untouched in the kitchen. The fruits gleamed in the sun, sweet and waiting.

As the car disappeared down the road, Navasard's smile faded. He lowered himself back onto the wooden bench beneath the mulberry tree. The apricot blossoms drifted down, one landing on his knee like a memory.

He sat there long into the evening, long after the wind changed and the birds grew quiet.

He thought of the stories he told, the nights he stayed up sewing torn clothes, the garden he had kept blooming for ten years so Shahab would have shade and sweetness.

And now, he sat alone with his offerings, unheard and unseen.

The stars emerged, one by one, as he whispered to the night, “He was mine… like a son. And still, I wasn’t enough.”

And in the silence, the lamb’s sacrifice, the waiting, the love—unseen by the one for whom it was all done—made his small world echo with a sorrow deeper than words.