Noor tugs her grandfather's sleeve. She holds up a crumpled drawing of the sun. 'Who is Allah?' she asks.
Grandfather smiles at the crooked yellow circle. 'Let me show you,' he says, and takes her hand.
They walk outside into the soft drizzle. Raindrops bead on the rose bush leaves and slide down Noor's arm. 'Allah is in the rain,' he says.
She opens her mouth to catch the raindrops. They taste like the garden after a long dry spell.
At the corner, Mrs. Yasmine hands a warm flatbread to a small boy. The smell of cumin and sesame fills the air.
'Allah is in kindness,' Grandfather says. Noor pockets a stray crumb from the walk home.
That night, Noor stands on her tiptoes at the window. Clouds drift past the moon, slow and silver.
A moth taps its wings against the glass — once, twice — then flies off into the dark.
She presses her palm flat against the cool glass. 'I see you everywhere, Allah,' she whispers.
The house is quiet. Noor curls under her quilt with the dried rose petal from the garden tucked into her fist.
