For one full week, time in District 4 took on a quiet, rhythmic grace.
Every evening at 5:45 PM, Hunza walked down the gravel lane toward Farooq Flour Mills, his heavy work boots steady against the earth. Every morning at 6:00 AM, he returned home with seven hundred pesos—having politely declined any extra payment beyond his agreed rate—to find Ayesha awake, two cups of hot tea steaming on the small wooden box they used as a table.
The clean income transformed their modest life on the third floor.
On Tuesday, Hunza purchased a small sack of fortified rice, three tins of sardines, and a small jar of wild honey. On Thursday, he accompanied Ayesha back to the Calle Siete clinic for her follow-up care.
"She’s gaining steady weight, and her blood pressure is perfect," the doctor remarked, noting down the updates on Ayesha’s record card. "Keep doing whatever you are doing. Peace of mind is the best medicine for a mother."
That evening, they walked through the small square near the chapel. The air was cool, carrying the sweet aroma of roasting corn from a street vendor. For the first time since arriving in the city, Hunza bought two ears of hot, salted corn, and they sat together on a concrete bench under the golden streetlamp, watching the evening crowd pass by.
"I asked Allah in my prayers today to freeze time," Ayesha said softly, leaning her shoulder against his arm. "To keep us right here in this week forever."
Hunza placed his wide, calloused hand over hers. "Time moves forward, Ayesha. But as long as our bread is clean, the peace stays with us."
For seven uninterrupted days, the city felt almost gentle. But deep in the shadows of the old grain district, a storm was quietly brewing.