That night, unable to sleep, he whispered to the empty room: "How will I read the heart of the Quran now?"

"Baba," she said, sitting on the edge of his bed. "You don't need to strain. Tell me what you want."

His eyes, clouded now with the beginnings of cataracts, had once been sharp enough to spot a counterfeit coin from across the souk. But they had never traced the loops of Ya Seen. Wal Quran-il Hakeem.

His granddaughter, Layla, overheard. She was visiting from university, a laptop bag slung over her shoulder and a gentle stubbornness in her smile.

Layla kept one page. Just the first verse. Framed above her desk.