Warm Bread, the Smell of Smoke S. Rouzbeh 22 دیماه 1404 :12.01.2026 A police officer comes home from the protests carrying the smell of smoke. His daughter's questions force him to confront his orders and decide where he will stand the next day. It was past midnight when he arrived. Tehran was neither asleep nor awake, but somewhere in between, like someone turning from side to side in pain, each time imagining that morning must be near. The stairwell smelled of smoke. Burning rubbish, burning tyres, the smell of gas. A smell that told you the fire was not only outside; somewhere inside the city, too, something was still burning. He turned the key and went in. His wife sat beside the table. The tea in the glass had gone cold and was still there, as though no one had had the heart to touch anything for fear of making the night more real. She looked at him and, standing there, said: ‘Why so late?’ He said nothing. He took off his shoes by the door. His socks smelled of dried sweat, the kind that first turns cold, then clings like salt. His sleeves were black. Not the black of the cloth, but the black of the day. His trousers seemed to scratch his skin. Blackness had settled under his nails, as though he had smuggled ash home with him. His wife came closer. She paused when she caught the smell of his clothes. ‘You… you smell of the street. Of burning.’ He swallowed. His throat was dry, but not from thirst: from all the things left unsaid. Breathing came from the children's room. Their little boy was asleep. Their daughter was not. Or perhaps she could not sleep. She opened the door halfway and stood there. Her hair was tousled, and her eyes understood more than her years. She said: ‘Dad… what kind of policeman are you?’ He raised his head. ‘A good policeman.’ She came a little closer. Her gaze fell on his hands. On the blackness under his nails. On the dry skin of his knuckles. Then she spoke softly, as though afraid that saying it aloud would break the house: ‘Outside… they say you beat people and kill them.’ Her mother started to speak, but the girl went on without looking at her: ‘I answered them. I said my dad doesn't do that. But the neighbours' children won't listen. No one plays with me any more… Dad, tell me it isn't true. You tell me.’ Her eyes searched his, curious and pleading. He could not meet them. He looked away. His gaze dropped to the floor, to a small stain beside his shoes. A stain that might have been dirt, or something else. His mind went back to the street: the commander's shouts, the sound of motorbikes, the chants, the smoke and gunfire. And that repeated order, hammering against his skull: ‘Show no mercy.’ His wife said: ‘What did they tell you today?’ He seemed to drag his voice up from the depths of his chest. ‘They said… don't let them advance. They said… they're all enemies. They said… show no mercy.’ His daughter spoke in a voice caught between tears and anger: ‘Then what does that mean? That you beat and killed other people's children? Are we supposed to eat bread that smells of blood?’ He flinched, as though struck at close range. The girl went on, faster now, because the words were escaping from her throat: ‘We can go hungry, Dad… but we have a conscience. We're human. I don't want them saying at school tomorrow that your dad… What am I supposed to say? How can I look my classmates and other people in the face?’ She left the sentence unfinished. She would not give shape to the last word. The word that, once formed, would stay in your mouth for years. From the room, their little boy called out, half asleep: ‘Is Dad home?’ ‘Go to sleep, darling,’ his wife said quickly. The boy fell silent again. But that one simple sentence drove into the man's mind like a nail: ‘Is Dad home?’ When is a father a father? When he comes home? Or when he keeps his integrity? He stood up and went to the drawer. His phone was there. He picked it up. The screen lit. His own face appeared in the glass: tired eyes, smoke settled on his skin, and a man who no longer knew which part of himself to defend. His wife said quietly: ‘What are you going to do?’ He murmured: ‘I just… I can't go back to those same words.’ His daughter came closer and laid her hand on his. Hers was warm, his cold. The warmth fell on the cold like a small patch of light. He switched on the camera. For a few seconds he stared. It was as though, after a long time, he had found his own voice again, a voice that no longer sounded like an order. He said: ‘I'm a policeman. But before that, I'm a father. Today they told me to show no mercy. I… I showed mercy, and my friend and I hid somewhere in the confusion? I don't know. All I know is that whatever they did, its smell has come into this house. My daughter smelled it. My wife smelled it. That's the worst of it… that the smoke doesn't come from the street. It comes from inside you.’ His breath broke. But he went on: ‘I haven't killed anyone. I don't want my hands to smell of blood. I don't want my children's bread to smell of suffering. Tomorrow… I won't stand there pushing people back any more. I'll… stand beside the people. If something has to break, let me break first, not this house.’ He stopped the video. His finger trembled over ‘Send’. Sending meant there was no going back. His wife looked at him. Her eyes said, ‘I understand,’ but her lips said nothing. Some kinds of understanding need no sound; they need the courage to face danger. His daughter said softly: ‘Dad… just don't lie. Just be yourself.’ He pressed the button. The message was gone. Like a stone falling into water, its ripples not yet visible, but stirring everything. Then, for the first time that night, he went towards the children's room. He stood beside his son's bed. The boy was asleep, his mouth half open, unaware that tomorrow the world might not give his father back. Under his breath, the man said: ‘If I'm not here tomorrow… at least know that your dad made one big decision in his life: to stand beside the people.’ And he turned out the light. Source: https://srouzbeh.com/en/posts/entry-1787847679003-ebc6088b Please credit the author and link to this edition.