Forty-Thousand and One Stars

The sun was nearly set beyond the west mountains, reminding Armando of an unforgiving fire. The city of Tehran started to illuminate by its night life making itself look like a hidden crown in the valley of the mountains. The first time ten years ago, Armando took in the sight with awe at its beauty. Like the city, he himself felt hidden away where no one would find him or his family. And he was at peace knowing this was likely the last image he would see in the coming months.

It was Thursday evening and Armando waited on the balcony for Pasha’s weekly visit after work. The air was barely crisping causing Armando to cough.

“You shouldn’t be up here.” Pasha said from behind the open doorway, “The cold will—”

“Yes, let’s pretend it’s the cold.” Armando said, barely able to wave for Pasha to take the seat across from him.

Pasha took the seat, “How did the doctor visit go?” He asked.

Armando let a moment pass before answering, “Six months.” He said dryly, “Or less.”

Pasha’s face became hard holding back grief and shock, “They’re sure?”

“My kidneys are below ten percent. The bypass on my liver is collapsing.” Armando kept his eyes on the skyline so he wouldn’t have to watch the hurt traveling across his friend’s face.

“We’ll find donors,” Pasha insisted. “We’ll find another doctor and get a second opinion. We’ll go to—”

“And gain what?” Armando cut in, the sharpness of his fear slipping into his voice. “A handful of stolen years? While everyone watches me wither? While Dahlia becomes a nurse instead of a wife? While my children forget how it felt to have a father?”

Pasha took no offense to the tone. Armando had always been friendly, helpful, welcoming, and warm. It was the sickness. His tone was not anger. It was terror, naked and raw.

Pasha lowered his gaze. He knew this wasn’t defiance. This was Armando’s grief sharpening itself into survival.

Below them, Tehran murmured with life: vendors calling out, motorbikes weaving through narrow streets, the laughter of teenagers drifting up along with the smell of bread ovens still warm from the day.

“I hate this,” Armando choked back his tears. “That I’ll have to leave them. That I won’t be there to protect them.”

Pasha looked up, not able to keep his own eyes from pooling..

“Dying isn’t what scares me,” Armando said, voice trembling. “It’s leaving Dahlia alone. Leaving my children fatherless.”

A long breath.

“And the thought of some random man stepping into my life. Into my home. Taking advantage of her… God help me, Pasha, that fear has been killing me the most.”

Pasha’s throat tightened. This was the most honest fear that he himself never thought of.

Armando spoke again, “You want to know the truth?” he whispered. “I’ve always feared dying because of what could happen to them. Not the illness. Not the pain. Just the possibility that after I’m gone… some man would step into our world and take advantage of my wife. Raise my children. Take what I built.”

Pasha focused on hearing the city all on its own. That the news wasn’t as finite as it was. This was the last kindness he could offer his friend. The illusion that nothing had changed while everything had changed.

The balcony door slid open. Dahlia stepped out with hot tea, cookies for Armando, biscuits for Pasha, as she had every Thursday for years. Her hands were steady, but the tension between the men caused her to pause.

“Are you two alright?” she asked.

Pasha turned his face toward the city, making it eclipse his vision. Hiding the emotion tightening his jaw.

Armando reached for her hand. “Hey,” he said softly. “Pasha has been good to us, yes?”

Dahlia smiled. “Always. I don’t know what we would have done without him.” She looked toward Pasha for a moment but he immediately looked away, refusing to look at her.

“I agree,” Armando said. “Our life here has bloomed because of his… aggressive generosity. You know, the kind no one asks for but suddenly happens anyway.”

A smile stretched across her face, “Like when he forced us to take his entire living room furniture because he said ours looked ‘too refugee chic.

“When he argued with the landlord for three hours until he lowered our rent,” he said laughing, “then argued another hour because there was no outlet for the air conditioner he bought us.’

”When he insisted on teaching me how to use Tehran buses even though I get lost in straight hallways.” Dahlia added.

”And don’t forget the time he replaced all our burnt-out lightbulbs without asking, then lectured us for twenty minutes about voltage, like we were electrical engineering students.”

Dahlia started crying from laughter.

Pasha kept his eyes fixed on the city, embarrassed and secretly pleased. The tightness in his jaw relaxed into a soft smile.

As the jokes died down, Dahlia set down the tray, squeezed Pasha’s shoulder, and went back inside without another word.

They both waited for the silence to settle in again before speaking.

“Do you remember,” Pasha began, “the night we crossed the border?”

Armando smiled faintly. “I remember you almost getting us killed.”

“I remember saving your stubborn life,” Pasha countered, raising his brows.

“That too.”

They both laughed, a tired, familiar sound. The story had been told so many times the children knew it better than either man. Tío Pasha and the Night of Forty Thousand Stars, they called it. Generously embellishing the part where Pasha carried little Juanito on his shoulders and sang to keep him calm.

“I owe you everything,” Armando said into his cup. “My children’s lives. My wife’s life. Mine, for however long it lasts.”

“You owe me nothing,” Pasha whispered, his eyes suddenly bright.

Armando finally looked at him. Really looked at him.

“I owe you gratitude,” he corrected. “And I owe you honesty. You have been more than a friend. More than family. You have been… hope. When we had none.”

Pasha didn’t know he stopped breathing.

Armando cupped his tea between both hands and took a small sip, “There’s something I want to say,” he said turning to look at Pasha. “Before I can’t.”

Pasha met his stare. “Whatever it is, it can wait.”

“I know,” Armando interrupted. “I know how long you’ve loved her.”

The wind paused. So did Pasha.

Armando held his friend’s gaze. “Since before the invasion. Before the escape. Before all this. You think I didn’t see the way you looked at her? The way you looked away when she looked back?” He took a slow sip of tea again. “I’m dying, Pasha. There is no need to hide truth anymore.”

Pasha swallowed hard. He could feel the guilt travel down his throat.

“I never acted on it,” Pasha said quietly.

“I know,” Armando said. “She didn’t either. That’s why I trusted you with my life.”

The call to prayer rose from a nearby mosque, the notes stretching across rooftops like an old, aching promise. They let the sound wash over them, filling the silence with something sacred.

Pasha bowed his head looking defeated, unable to speak.

“When I am gone, and I will be gone soon, I want you to continue your kindness. Your generosity. I want you to ask her to marry you.”

Pasha flinched as if struck.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t. I can't be that man.”

“You already love her,” Armando said gently. “And she trusts you. The children adore you. You have been ‘tío’ for so long you have become something more.”

“That is exactly why I cannot,” Pasha said, voice cracking. “Your memory would haunt every corner of the house.”

Armando smiled, eyes softening. “Good. Let it haunt. Let it remind you to care for them.”

The wind picked up, tugging at the table cloth. Tehran glittered below, the lights shimmering like distant lanterns on water.

“I am not asking you to replace me,” Armando continued. “I am asking you to continue what you have already been doing. Protect them. Love them. Let them live.”

Pasha closed his eyes. Wetness gathered at the edges.

“What if she doesn’t love me?” he asked. The fear escaping in the whisper.

Armando squeezed Pasha’s shoulder, “Then she will choose what she chooses,” he said. “But I trust you. Don’t let another man take them.”

They sat in silent agreement letting the tea grew cold.

Eventually, Pasha whispered, “You have my word.”

“I know,” Armando said, leaning back, exhaustion settling deep into his bones. “That is why I chose you.”

The city continued without knowing that something monumental had just shifted on a single rooftop. Like grief. Like love. Something like a man offering his last blessing to the person he trusted most.

Armando breathed in the evening air, his home’s air and let it fill him.

“Thank you, Pasha,” he said quietly.

Pasha wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Rest, Armando. I will always be here.”

And as the night deepened, two men sat together on a rooftop. Bound by war. Bound by love. And bound by impossible debts.