Mustafa sat at the edge of the building, looking down at the busy world — moving too fast for him now.
A blanket of wind passed through his grey beard. Once, he was a great poet. Now, he could barely hold a pen. But he smiled.
He smiled because he knew:
She was here.
The girl.
Still the same after all these years — those same eyes, those same lips. The same as when we first meet all those years ago.
Barefoot.
Bright-faced, like sunlight in human form.
Standing beside him, on top of that quiet apartment rooftop.
For the first time in his life, Mustafa questioned her existence.
He asked, gently, "What will you do after I'm gone?"
She looked at him and said,
"I'll go where you go."
He nodded slowly.
"Then let's go to the other world," he whispered, "where no one can disturb us... and we can grow a garden of white roses — just as you like."
And she smiled.