A heavy, unceasing rain pounded against the frozen windowpanes, and the sound of its patter mingled with the gusting wind. Inside the house it was warm; the heater burned slowly with its warm flames, but a strange cold had nested in my heart that no heater could chase away. I sat at the table by the window and took the colored pencils out of their box to paint, but there was no enthusiasm in me. My hands touched the pencils but my mind was elsewhere—thinking of Setareh.

I saw Setareh every morning and evening. A thin, frail girl with a thin scarf and worn shoes who sold flowers in the cold air. Her voice was alive in my ear: “Auntie, would you like to buy a flower?”

Each time I passed her, I saw her frozen hands trying to warm themselves with the heat of her mouth, but it wasn’t enough.

I put the green color on the paper, but my hand shook. No line was drawn. I looked at the glass. The steam from my mother’s freshly brewed tea quietly settled on the lip of the window. My mother’s voice came from the kitchen: “Narges dear! Come, my girl, hot tea is ready.”

I sat by the heater. The scent of fresh tea mixed with the smell of warm bread. My mother smiled and placed the cup of tea in front of me: “Drink, my daughter, it will warm you.”

I drank the tea, but the warmth that reached my throat did not reach my heart. Setareh, in her thin clothes, in that cold weather, became vivid before my eyes.

With each sip of tea I remembered Setareh. It was two o’clock. I put on my gloves and left the house. The alleys smelled of coal smoke. On the way to class, I saw Setareh again. She wore the same thin clothes and with the same voice, trembling from the cold, called out to people to buy her flowers.

“Auntie, uncle, would you buy a flower?”

Her flowers, too, had wilted from the cold. No one looked at her. I could not pass by indifferently. I approached her, took her cold hands, and asked how she was.

“I’m fine, sister. No one buys my flowers. The weather is so cold.”

She spoke of her martyred father. Of a mother who do chores in other people’s homes and of a house without a heater. Of little brothers and sisters who are hungry and waiting for her.

All I could say was: “Setareh, if you want to study, I will help you.”

Her tears flowed. She hugged me tightly and asked in a trembling voice, “Will you really help me? So I can study?”

I kissed her face and said, “Yes, my dear. You deserve the best.”

With a heavy heart I reached the class. My students were waiting for me. When the lesson ended, one of the students raised his hand and asked, “Teacher! In your opinion, what is the most beautiful feeling in the world?”

The classroom filled with voices. One said: “Freedom.”

Another said: “Happiness.”

A third quietly murmured: “Warmth.”

I smiled but said nothing. That word, “warmth,” reminded me of Setareh shivering in the cold rain, warming her hands with the heat of her mouth.

When I returned home, my eyes fell on the box of colored pencils. I reached in and took the green pencil. I remembered how happy I had been the day I won it at school. But now the meaning of those colors had become something else. I put them back into the box one by one and smiled. I wrapped it with a ribbon and wrote on it: “For Setareh, to color her dreams.”

Now I knew what my student’s answer was. The most beautiful feeling in the world is the moment you give warmth to someone’s heart and see that your own heart has grown many times warmer.