Short story by: Abdel Latif Moubarak
Egyptian writer
He used to sit in the center of the living room like a towering tree offering its shade to everyone. “Sheikh Abdel Gawad”—a man whose authority and wisdom left no room for any problem to persist in the neighborhood or at home. He was not merely the head of a family consisting of his wife “Umm Ahmed” and three children, but the compass guiding the family’s ship through the stormy waves of life.
On a warm winter night, while Abdel Gawad was sipping his mint tea and telling his usual stories, he suddenly fell silent. The teacup slipped from his hand, and his proud figure bent forever. Abdel Gawad died from a sudden stroke, and with him, the light that used to shine in the corners of the old house was extinguished.
The soil on his grave had not even dried before the family ship began to flounder. The loss of the home’s pillar exposed cracks that had remained hidden behind his presence. “Ahmed,” the eldest son, who had always feigned responsibility, suddenly found himself without a guide, overcome by greed and inexperience.
Meanwhile, “Sara,” the middle daughter, surrendered to her marital conflicts after losing the wise man who used to mend her youthful mistakes. Finally, “Omar,” the youngest son who was closest to his father, sought refuge in sedatives and psychological medication to escape a cruel reality where his only mentor had vanished. As for the mother, she remained immersed in silent grief, watching helplessly as the house collapsed.
Six months passed after his passing, and the atmosphere of the house had completely changed. The living room, which once brought them together in laughter, turned into a battlefield. Ahmed wanted to sell the old house and the carpentry workshop left by his father to gamble on an uncertain commercial venture, indifferent to his mother’s refusal, who saw the house as the last remaining memory.
”I am the elder here, and this house will not be sold!” the mother shouted at Ahmed, who replied furiously, “The house won’t feed us, Mother! The workshop is closed, and debts are piling up!” Deep divisions, constant screaming, and a chill that severed bonds that were once unbreakable.
The fragmentation did not stop at money. Sara packed her bags and returned home after a fierce fight with her husband that ended in an emotional separation, isolating herself in her room to weep over years of shattered hopes. Omar accumulated debts and was expelled from the university due to continuous absences and a total loss of direction.
Death had not taken Abdel Gawad alone; it had taken reason, order, and tenderness along with him. The house had become like a place inhabited by ghosts: moving bodies devoid of souls, and grudges growing in the hearts of siblings. It seemed that everything the father had built throughout his life was vanishing in a matter of months.
On a rainy night, while the dispute over selling the workshop reached its peak, a loud thud resonated from the kitchen. Then, suddenly… the electricity went out throughout the entire house. Silence fell, and anxious breaths filled the heavy air.
A match was struck in the darkness, and suddenly the scent of pine wood and the aroma of “rose” perfume—which no one in the house used except Abdel Gawad—diffused through the room. No terrifying apparition or decaying corpse appeared, but the scent and sound were clearer than ever: the sound of his deliberate footsteps on the old floor… step… step.
The contract dropped from Ahmed’s hands. At that precise moment, the door of the old cabinet in the father’s study swung open, and a closed wooden box fell out, along with an old journal bound in brown leather.
Panic seized everyone, and they sat around the single candle, breathing heavily. The mother opened the box with trembling hands, finding letters, confessions, and documents that Abdel Gawad had prepared just days before his death, as though he had sensed his end and was preparing the ground for what would come after. The dead sometimes return… not in body, but through the traces and actions left behind to save the living.
The mother pulled out a letter addressed to Ahmed. He read it while weeping: “To my dear son and mainstay… The timber trade is not just about money, Ahmed; it is about patience and shaping beauty. The workshop is your siblings’ security, and the house is your mother’s roof; do not sell out your roots to chase illusions.” Along with the letter, Ahmed found a detailed map of the workshop’s debts and the names of major clients his father had kept to start anew.
Then, Sara read her letter: “My daughter, your true anchor in life is not someone who always makes you happy, but someone you endure with to build a home. Your husband is a good man, but he lacks the art of dialogue; be the one to initiate it, just as your mother was with me.”
As for Omar, he found in his box an old cassette tape in which his father had recorded his voice while suffering from his illness: “Omar, my beloved, faith is not about never falling, but about rising every time you fall. The university is your gateway to making me proud… Do not let me down.”
Abdel Gawad’s voice echoed through the dark room via the recording and the air steeped in his scent. The children felt his presence in every corner, wiping away their tears, caressing their hearts, and mending what his absence had ruined.
The following morning, the sun did not rise over the house alone, but over their souls as well. Ahmed tore up the sales contract and headed straight to the workshop, dusting it off and flinging open its grand doors just as his father used to do.
Sara called her husband with an open heart and a mind focused on solutions rather than conflict. Omar gathered his books and papers, returning to college armed with his father’s last wish. When the dead return, they restore the heartbeat to souls that were on the brink of stopping.
Another year passed. The family gathered once again around the dining table in the large living room. The workshop was back in business through Ahmed’s hard work, Sara returned to her home with her child, and Omar graduated with honors.
Everyone sat laughing, and at the head of the table sat the father’s empty chair. Yet, no one said he was absent. The siblings exchanged glances of gratitude, knowing at that moment that their father had never truly died; he had returned on that dark night to touch their souls and mend what death had broken.
