Mice are no longer just hovering around the hen cage under the sidra. I crept into the houses. I would smell an earthy, sour smell, I don't know where it came from, if I was lying on the living room sofas. Although I have never seen a mouse inside the house, my mother, Hessa, confirms that whenever she removes the armrests of the sofas, they reveal dark brown droppings about the size of grains of rice. She says that they are mice. I remember her promise. I remind her: "When are you telling me the story of the four mice?" Get busy cleaning the place. She answers: "At night." Night comes, like every night. She takes out her dentures. She speaks in the darkness of her room. Introduction to the story: “Ibn Al-Zarzour forged, who never lied or swore falsely.”