TEHRAN- Year 1404 is ending under a sky that has too often flashed with missiles instead of fireworks, yet spring still arrives in Iran with its quiet, stubborn radiance. For twenty-one days, the attacks have overshadowed the familiar joy of the last days of the year. This time, the new year greets us hand in hand with Eid al-Fitr, but since the first explosions, the lights of Ramadan nights and end-of-year rituals have felt dimmer, as if viewed through a veil of smoke.

And yet, spring has its own way of entering a city, even a wounded one. In Tehran, despite the departures to smaller towns and northern regions, the season is visible in details that war cannot erase. The air has softened; the sharp cold of winter has given way to a gentler breeze. On balconies and in courtyards, small pots of sabzeh have quietly appeared, planted by hands that refuse to give up on the idea of renewal. The capital, usually overwhelmed by traffic, now feels strangely spacious, and in that unexpected emptiness, blossoms and fresh leaves stand out more clearly.

The sorrows of this year are undeniable. The twelve-day war in June, the painful days of January, and the protests against crushing inflation-all of them have left deep scars on families across the country. Yet, even on this heavy foundation, a new layer is forming in these final hours: the shared decision not to let grief completely drown the sense of season. Families speak of smaller Haft-Seen tables, but their voices soften when they describe them: a plate of sabzeh grown on a windowsill, a single candle, a simple mirror to reflect light, a Quran opened with hope rather than despair.

I have stayed in Tehran throughout, and now find myself in a neighborhood in the north of the city, far from my own home. We came here in the first days of the attacks, seeking quieter nights and safer shelter. In recent evenings, even here, explosions shake the windows, reminding us that no corner is truly untouched. Still, between the shocks, ordinary conversations return-about which sweets to buy "if the shop is open tomorrow," which program to watch for the countdown, which relative to call first when the new year begins.

Nothing is entirely in its place, but something essential endures. For the sake of our loved ones, we cling to the thread of everyday life: a quick cleaning of the house, washing curtains, setting aside even one new item of clothing for a child, arranging whatever we can on a modest Haft-Seen. These gestures are not mere habit; they are quiet acts of resistance against despair. Spring, in this landscape, becomes more than a change of weather. It is a promise whispered under a troubled sky: that our grief will travel with us into the new year, but so will our capacity to hope, to rebuild, and to lean, once again, toward light and better days.