Mrs. Rafiq was known for her locked door. Then came the seeds, the soil, and the weekly knocks for tomatoes.
After her husband’s passing, Mrs. Rafiq kept the curtains drawn and footsteps silent. A neighbor left seed packets at her door with a note that read, “If you ever feel like growing something.” She did not expect to feel tenderness toward soil, but a single sprout threaded itself through the week and asked her to keep going. Vines climbed the railing; tomatoes blushed. She left a basket on the stair landing with a handwritten sign: “Take some.” Strangers became neighbors as recipes were exchanged in the stairwell and laughter drifted across the roof at sunset. By autumn, mint, chilies, and lemons joined the tomatoes, and someone chalked “Rooftop Market – Saturdays 5 pm.” One evening Mrs. Rafiq pulled up a chair for the first time in months. She ate tomato salad with too much salt and thought the world had found its way back to her through a seed the size of a pinhead.
