In a rural house in the highlands of Mazandaran, beside a window that opens to the lush green of the trees, two children sit in front of a fan, singing. The spinning blades make their voices tremble, as if the sound were returning from another world. They love this simple game; each time their song quivers through the blades, they feel as though something in the heart of the house awakens. The cracked walls, the faded carpet, and the yellow curtains all seem to be watching them. In the long silence of summer, this sound feels like a small secret known only to them and this old house.