Would You Call It a Miracle by Farzin Farzam

It was the first week of the war, and Israeli Adir fighters had taken over Tehran’s sky. In the city’s haze, they were silver ghosts—flashing in and out, leaving rubble and a low roar that trembled through the buildings.

Sa’adat Abad, like the rest of Tehran, had decided that life would go on. Those who couldn’t leave the city were cautiously enjoying the light traffic and rare abundance of parking spaces. They’d returned to their routines because the attacks came so fast there was nothing anyone could do about it anyway—like getting hit from behind on the sidewalk by a food delivery motorcycle. Better not to think too much about it.

It was 5:30 a.m. on a Friday when Mr. Taheri joined the short queue of half a dozen men at the sangak bakery on Sarv Street. He saw most of them every morning: the old man at the head of the line—a forcibly retired professor of electrical engineering. Behind him, the Afghan teenager who worked and slept at the supermarket on Darya Boulevard. And last in line, a firefighter from the neighborhood station. He wondered how busy the fire station had been lately, but didn’t ask. 

The air still carried the night chill as the sun edged over the Alborz Mountains. He breathed in the warm smell of bread dough and yawned. He hadn’t slept much. The baby had woken at midnight and cried for hours. With his wife working the night shift at the hospital, he’d had to soothe her alone. 

The baby had been sick for a couple of days, the way all babies get sick—from one thing or another. She wouldn’t stop crying. He felt for her, but what could he do? It just had to run its course.

He remembered the night his wife surprised him with the pregnancy news. He’d promised himself to be the best father he could, and when the crying felt unbearable, he held on to that promise.

He tore at the hot sangak bread as he walked. Above him, a faint whirr passed through the haze. He looked up, but the sky was empty. Half a block from home, he buzzed the intercom of a four-story building. From upstairs, his mother-in-law let him in.

After her morning prayer, just before dawn, she texted him to bring the baby over. He’d dropped her off, then gone to buy bread. Back at her place, they sat for breakfast—fresh cardamom tea and her fig jam with a touch of rosewater, as they often did on Fridays. In the quiet kitchen, she kept the birdcages covered so the finches wouldn’t wake the baby. She’d bought them after her divorce, when she moved to a small apartment near her sister. When her daughter became pregnant, the young couple rented a place nearby.

Once they’d finished breakfast, he carried the baby home. His mother-in-law called after him that she’d drop by later to bring Fesenjun stew for lunch, little meatballs cooked in a sour-sweet pomegranate-walnut sauce, the way her daughter loved. 

He laid the sleeping baby in her bassinet and went to the kitchen to make coffee. The brewer hummed and hissed, filling the room with low, steady noise. He checked a few lines of code, then watched the news for nearly an hour until a soft thump came from the bedroom. He checked on her—still asleep. His suit had fallen from the coatrack. He brushed it off, hung it back, and watched a rerun from Iran’s soccer league on mute until he drifted off on the couch. 

He woke to the buzz of the intercom and glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was late morning. He pressed the entry button, then walked back toward the bedroom. The baby was awake, looking toward the window. He followed her gaze to the sticky tape crisscrossing the glass, picked her up, and smelled her diaper.

“What are you looking at, love?” he said.

Then came the doorbell. He kissed her head, laid her back down, and walked out, hungry for the stew.   

The baby was still staring at the window. She was amused by a distant hum, growing until it roared behind the glass. The sound trembled through the walls. Something shifted in the corner of the room—a shape bending toward her. She reached up—and a wooden arm met her hand. It was the coatrack. It lifted her and in a single motion leaped through the window. 

A heartbeat later, the apartment blew apart.

When the baby’s mother drove into the street, police had already cordoned it off. Firefighters were at work. Neighbors gathered in the drifting dust. She stood by her car, trembling. The air was thick and tasted like metal. Someone shouted, “The whole sixth floor is gone.” Their neighbor, the retired university professor, and his wife rushed to her and hugged her. “Your baby’s alright, honey. She’s alright,” the woman said. 

Their other neighbor, the fireman, carried the baby and handed her to the mother, who scanned her for the smallest injury, but the child was spotless. Not even a speck of dust on her skin. Her head smelled faintly of the sweet solvent of her father’s dry-cleaned suit. She held her close and wept.

In the years that followed, people would ask the fireman how he’d found her. He always told the same story: he’d found her lying on a coatrack, standing straight on the sidewalk under a tree. They’d laugh, ask for the real story, and he’d only shrug. Some said an angel had carried her, others that her father threw her clear and she landed on a bush. A few swore it was the fireman himself. No one knew what had really happened, but the word miracle remained.

Farzin Farzam is a writer from Iran. His work has been recognized as a finalist for the Witness Literary Awards. He lives in the United States.

3 April 2026