PART ONE
To my mother,
whose quiet sacrifices and steadfast faith have walked with me every step of the way.
A Fragment of Light
This book was born from an inner necessity — not merely to recount events, but to bear witness to them.
It was forged in the shadow of fear, beneath the heavy hand of censorship, where memory itself seemed a weight too great to carry.
I am grateful to many, especially those who never let hope falter.
These lines are fragments of that hope.
I hope they carry back even a shard of the light I once found here.
Author’s Note:
To preserve the integrity of language and the balance of style, this translation has been prepared with the utmost care. Digital tools were used sparingly, only where they could serve the original voice without compromising its artistic intent.
✍️
A Word to the Reader:
This story unfolds in Syria during the late 1970s, a time of profound social change and subtle oppression. It follows a young man from the countryside, navigating the fragile intersection of tradition and modernity, weighed down by family expectations, yet lifted by the pull of his dreams.
The settings — from a small fabric shop in the old city of Damascus to the narrow lanes of his village — are not mere backdrops. They echo the internal conflicts of a divided world: city against countryside, education against poverty, freedom against conformity.
On the Threshold of a Dream is not a political manifesto. Yet between its lines, one can sense the trembling of a society that leaves its youth suspended in uncertainty. It is the story of a seeker, of a hope that refuses to be extinguished.
I invite you to enter with open eyes and an open heart into a world that is both distant and familiar — one that may awaken an echo within your own memory.
—Numan Albarbari
Before the Beginning
Numan stepped into the familiar streets of his hometown after a week of grueling exams at his private school in the heart of Damascus. His eyes were heavy with fatigue, carrying a quiet confession: the days had borrowed his peace without asking, returning only fragments now, as he crossed the threshold of home.
At the edge of the city, where narrow streets met the soft expanse of countryside, the light lingered in a hesitant pause, as if unsure whether to surrender to dawn. And the soul, delicate and wary, paused too—hovering between what was left behind and what was waiting, between fear and expectation.
Here, space became emotion. The city whispered of lessons and trials, of questions pressing against the walls of a restless mind. The countryside murmured of tenderness, memory, and the simple, enduring rhythm of life that moves slower, yet more insistently, than any ticking clock.
But today, Numan’s heart was suspended in a fragile balance: the tremor of doubt entwined with the glimmer of hope, like a slender thread of light piercing the darkness of uncertainty.
In Douma, on the outskirts of Damascus, sunset bled slowly into night. Lamps along the alleys flickered, hesitant and golden, before fading into quiet shadows. The streets themselves seemed to hold their breath, waiting for his return, waiting for recognition, waiting for something unspoken.
Crossing his doorway, the sound of his mother’s voice reached him—a melody familiar from a thousand yesterdays:
“Numan! At last, my dear… Did those exams wear you completely out?”
His smile was quiet, touched with exhaustion, but his eyes carried a fragile joy, guarded and trembling. He whispered softly, almost to himself, “Yes… it was tiring, Mother. But… I feel something has shifted inside me. I can sense that what I’ve been reaching for is close.”
Her face lit up like a lantern in the dark, steady and warm. She drew him into her arms, enfolding him in a love that had held him before he even knew the strength in his own heart.
“You are our hero, Numan,” she said, holding him with the certainty of faith. “You make us proud. We nurtured your dream as it grew within ours, and we waited for this very moment. I believe in you. I know your heart will reach what it deserves—through effort, through courage, through the goodness of your spirit.”
In that embrace, the sunset became more than background. It became presence, awareness, a trembling revelation: life, even in its shadows and uncertainties, carries meaning. And in that fleeting glow, Numan felt the first stirrings of his dream, stretching its wings toward the world.
Her words struck him like sunlight breaking through clouds. She had always believed in him—believed in his strength, in the hidden depths of his dreams, in the potential that even he sometimes doubted. All her hope had been placed in him, unwavering, despite life’s harsh tests.
Then his father appeared at the doorway, drawn by the voices. Clad in simple, everyday clothes, he stood there quietly, yet his face radiated a calm pride—the steady dignity of a man who sees in his child the continuation of his own aspirations.
He stepped closer, his voice gentle but firm, filled with a respect that felt almost sacred:
“Numan, I’m proud of you. But you won’t stop here, will you?”
Numan lifted his gaze, first to his father, then to his mother’s hands still wrapped around him, and felt the weight—and the wonder—of standing at the threshold of life’s most defining choice: to pursue not only his own dream, but the dreams his family had nurtured with him.
A hush fell over the room. Then, with a certainty that surprised even him, he spoke:
“I’ve made my decision, Father, Mother. After the results, I will continue my studies. I will prepare to enter the College of Engineering. I am done hesitating… I will give everything I have, and one day, I will be the best in this path.”
Their faces lit with joy—an unspoken celebration of independence, of a dream awakening, of a choice being born. His parents exchanged a quiet glance, and his father said softly:
“Numan, we are with you every step of the way. This is your dream, and we are proud of you—and of everything you are yet to become.”
Numan smiled, and in that smile trembled a profound sense of liberation. His decision was both a gift to himself and a light for his parents’ hearts. In their eyes shone the quiet rapture of relief, as if they had glimpsed a life saved from the tide of uncertainty.
It was a dream that began with one, yet carried the power to embrace all. Challenges, detours, failures—they would come. But the first step had been taken, and it would always mark the place where it began.
“Here,” he whispered, “this is where it all begins.”
Then, humbly, he added:
“All I need now is your prayers… and your encouragement.”
Surrounded by the warmth of family, Numan felt ready to change his life—not just for himself, but to cast a light into the skies of those he loved, as he had always promised himself he would, whenever he stepped toward what was better.
Introduction
The shop lingered in Numan’s memory not merely as a place of work, but as a quiet sanctuary of the heart—a small temple where memories gathered, and where the rhythm of history, effort, and tireless labor pulsed softly.
The fabrics, rough and soft, bright and muted, carried within them the duality of life that Numan had always known: a life suspended between dreams and reality, ambition and necessity.
In the corners of that old Damascus shop, nestled among wooden and cardboard boxes brimming with garments—some tightly bundled, others spilling lazily over the edges of shelves—Numan’s story began. This was no ordinary summer job. It was a station of hope, a place where he could gather strength, preparing for the future he dared to dream.
By then, Numan was nearing his twenty-first year. Born in a poor, devout countryside, the eldest of his siblings, the first grandchild, and the only one to pursue education, he had learned early that learning was a rugged journey, not a smooth road. His parents, uneducated themselves, labored tirelessly: his father, a barber, barely feeding eleven mouths from his small shop; his mother, bent over an old embroidery machine, stitching authentic Damascene motifs to meet the household’s needs.
Education demanded sacrifices far beyond his young grasp. So, he began working immediately after primary school. The work was neither his calling nor aligned with his dreams, but it was the only way forward—a path dictated not by desire, but by necessity.
That summer, however, felt different. He had chosen to work for Hajj Abu Mahmoud, a stern man of few words, unwavering in routine, and devoted to order. Abu Mahmoud trusted nothing to chance; numbers and accounts had to be written and recorded, precise and meticulous, even if he could have solved them in a glance.
Every morning, like clockwork at eight, Abu Mahmoud entered the shop. He inspected its cleanliness, examined the fabrics, scrutinized every detail, and quietly dictated the day’s work to his lone assistant. And in that measured rhythm, Numan learned more than tailoring or trade. He learned discipline, patience, and the subtle art of seeing potential in even the humblest corners of life.
A month had passed since Numan had started working with Hajj Abu Mahmoud. He was the shop’s only worker, having just completed his third-year secondary exams. In a remarkably short time, he had shown competence that caught the attention of everyone around him.
His motivation was simple and pure: to succeed, to excel, to reach university, and perhaps, in doing so, offer his family a brighter tomorrow.
The results finally arrived. Numan had passed—not among the top students, but he had cleared the exams. It was not the triumph he had dreamed of, yet it was enough to set his first foot on the long path ahead.
That morning, he entered the shop clutching his report card. His eyes flickered with tension and joy alike. A thorny question gnawed at his heart: Are these grades enough? Can this success truly be called success? Does it justify all the effort I have given?
Then, a quiet, tender voice whispered inside him: “You are the only one in the family who pursued education. Every single mark on this report is your true accomplishment.”
Abu Mahmoud read the report in silence. After a moment, a small smile curved his lips.
“Congratulations on your success,” he said.
He reached into a sturdy iron safe and withdrew three hundred-pound notes, placing them gently into Numan’s pocket.
“You deserve a reward for this day…!” he added, pausing briefly before giving a hint of instruction:
“First, go to Mr. Abi Ali’s shop in Marjeh Square. Buy two of the finest sweets and tell him I sent you, so he can choose what suits this success. Let us celebrate with the neighbors first, and take the other home to celebrate with your family as it should be.”
Those three hundred pounds equaled an entire month’s wages.
As Numan walked toward Marjeh, a question stirred in his mind: Should I spend a month’s effort on a single day of festivity?
But the doubt dissolved quickly when he remembered: the owner of the reward had decided. Celebrating success was no longer a luxury—it was a rightful claim.
He returned with three boxes of Damascene sweets and placed them on the desk. Abu Mahmoud smiled.
“And before we open them… take these for yourself.”
He reached into the safe once more and handed Numan three additional notes.
“But, sir… this is too much!” Numan exclaimed, astonished.
Abu Mahmoud answered quietly, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of joy and a hint of regret:
“No, Professor Numan, it is not too much for someone who has worked hard and excelled. You have brought happiness to my heart… how I wished, in my youth, to bring such joy to my parents with my own success, just as you have today. Yet I could not.”
For the first time, Abu Mahmoud allowed a glimpse of his hidden vulnerability, stepping out of the carefully measured silence he had maintained for years. His words rewound the past, and Numan, in that moment, glimpsed a version of him he had never known.
Abu Mahmoud stood and said with warmth,
“Come, let us invite a few neighbors and celebrate as you deserve.”
On that summer day in Damascus, the old fabric shop was transformed, not by profit or business, but by the quiet triumph of a small dream beginning to grow. Numan, the young villager, had taken a significant step toward the future he had long yearned for.
At that moment, the door opened. A man in his late forties entered, wearing a black suit, a gray shirt, and a tie shaded between charcoal and black. Behind him walked a young woman, pale and luminous, around Numan’s age, carrying a scrap of fabric in her hand, dressed in a short black skirt and a gray short-sleeved sweater.
The man greeted softly,
“Peace be upon you.”
Abu Mahmoud responded in his usual calm, measured tone:
“And upon you be peace, mercy, and God’s blessings.”
He then returned to his desk, resuming his quiet authority, while Numan stepped forward, ready to carry out the task his teacher had entrusted to him.
The Haj’s voice rang clearly through the shop:
“Mr. Numan, if you would… attend to the customers and assist them.”
Numan hesitated for a brief moment at the shop’s threshold, then moved swiftly with short, eager steps, taking his place behind the sales counter. A smile of polite confidence spread across his face as he addressed the man:
“Welcome. How may I assist you, sir?”
01
Chapter One — The Beginning
Numan’s words were directed squarely at the man, his hands resting firmly on the long sales counter that stretched between them.
He did not glance at Muna, nor at the scrap of fabric she extended toward him, her tone confident and her eyes glinting with a spark of challenge:
” We’ve been searching since morning for a piece of cloth that matches this—color, weave, texture.”
But Numan, steady and unshaken, continued his conversation with the man, without so much as reaching for the scrap:
” I’m sorry, sir, we only sell fabric wholesale or half-wholesale. We do not sell by the yard.”
Muna interjected, her gaze darting across the piles and shelves as she spoke, her tone tinged with insistence:
” But someone sent us here, insisting that you specialize in this kind, and that we’d find what we’re looking for with you.”
Numan repeated his apology to the man, with the same calm, unyielding composure:
” I’m sorry, as I told you, sir, we do not sell by the yard.”
Frustration flared in Muna’s voice, anger creeping into her words as she said:
” Are we not even allowed to look?! Perhaps we might find what we need here. Or is your status above the considerations of ordinary people?!”
Numan did not turn to her. Maintaining his composure, he addressed the man once more, third time steady and deliberate:
” Sir, please…”
Muna interrupted him, her voice sharp with excitement:
” There it is! That fabric on the shelf! Yes! This is exactly it! Papa, this is what I’ve been looking for!”
Yet, despite her outburst, Numan continued his conversation with the man with a calmness that bordered on the remarkable:
” I apologize, sir, but unfortunately, we only sell in bulk.”
Muna’s impatience grew; she pointed at the fabric, her voice rising as she shouted:
” Bring me that dress! … Come on! … Move! … Why are you standing there like that?! … Are you stupid? … Didn’t you hear me?!”
From a distance, Haj Abu Mahmoud observed the scene in silence, his gaze weighing every gesture with quiet wisdom.
Numan spoke gently, his tone unyielding in its courtesy:
” Sir, I can write down the name of a nearby retail merchant, from the Souq al-Hariqa, who is the only one in this area that buys this type from us … You will find what you seek with him.”
The man nodded in agreement and said:
” Yes, please do.”
He took the paper from Numan’s hand, thanked him politely, and grasped his daughter’s hand to leave—but she pulled away firmly and said:
“We must be certain first!”
Then she stepped close to Numan, her voice slicing through the air:
“I am the one who speaks!.. Not my father! Are you blind?! Or deaf?! Or simply incapable of understanding?!”
Despite the insult, Numan’s face remained calm, polite, almost serene, as if his silent reply carried a weight far heavier than any spoken word.
This only fueled the girl’s anger. She unleashed a torrent of curses in a dialect unfamiliar to him—scattered, rapid-fire words, most of which he could not comprehend, yet their impact struck him like open-handed slaps across his face.
Still, he did not lose control. He stood like a wall, receiving the rain of her fury in silence, never betraying weakness.
He said quietly,
“Is there any other service I might offer you, sir?”
At this, her anger erupted to its peak. She turned sharply toward Hajj Abu Mahmoud and shouted with a sharp, piercing voice:
“Couldn’t you find a worker smarter than this fool?! Has Damascus run out of competent men that you have to employ this idiot?!”
Then Hajj Abu Mahmoud stepped forward with his calm, measured steps and spoke with a gentle authority that barely contained the rising tension:
“Welcome. I suppose you have arrived in Damascus after a long journey, and perhaps you are tired. I hope you will accept our invitation for a cup of tea, so that we might rest a little and speak calmly.”
The girl’s eyes blazed with indignation. Her voice trembled with fierce emotion as she retorted,
“Thank you for the welcome! Your servant’s treatment of us makes it perfectly clear how you receive guests in your country!”
The elder man responded, his tone gentle and measured:
“Please, do not be too quick to judge, my dear lady. The young man before you is, in truth, well-mannered and courteous. It is only that he has never had the occasion to interact with young ladies, for they do not enter our shop, as we do not sell in small quantities. As Master Numan explained, our dealings are reserved for merchants alone.”
Muna shouted back, her voice sharp:
“That matters not to me! I am paying with my own money! And you, as the shopkeeper, are supposed to care for selling your goods, while he, as your employee, must attend to the customers!”
The elder man replied with the same calm courtesy:
“There is some logic in what you say, yet I have seen nothing from this young man but kindness and good manners. Even though you spoke to him harshly, he erred not. I apologize for any misunderstanding.”
He then gestured toward the tray of sweets, adding:
“By the way, today is a special day for us in this shop. Master Numan has succeeded in his general secondary school examinations, in the scientific branch, and he brought these sweets for us to celebrate. We had planned to invite the neighbors for the occasion, but since you arrived before them, welcome—you are our honored guests.”
The girl paused for a moment, then spoke in a low, measured voice:
” No… no, thank you. We just want to buy the fabric, and we will leave immediately.”
The elder man replied calmly:
” As you wish.”
He returned to his desk.
She stepped closer, her tone shifting slightly:
” Won’t you ask your assistant to sell us a piece of this fabric? Or does he not hear you? …Or is he waiting for an order that will never come?”
He answered gently:
” We apologize. We do not keep accounts for retail sales, and scraps are not for sale here.”
She muttered under her breath, glancing at Numan:
” Surely no one would ever buy anything from you… as long as you insist on dealing this way…”
Then she turned to the elder man and said firmly:
” Very well, I will buy the whole dress. Bring it down for me.”
The man asked Numan to fulfill the request. Numan brought the dress and laid it on the table before his teacher, then returned to his place, his eyes reddened, as if holding back tears that refused to fall.
The girl examined the fabric carefully, draping a piece over herself, then looked into a small mirror she pulled from her bag. She turned to her father, her eyes carrying a long, unspoken conversation that only he could understand, and whispered:
” This is it, Papa… exactly as I wanted.”
The man took out his wallet and handed a bundle of money to Hajj, but the sum fell short—the price was steep. He pleaded to pay the rest after stepping out to the car and returning.
Before he could move, the girl stepped forward and said to Numan, her voice firm, commanding:
“Carry the dress to the car, and we will pay there.”
Numan froze for a moment. How could he do that after everything that had been said? Yet he swallowed the fire within, hiding every spark that raged in his chest.
The man turned to him gently and said:
“Would you kindly help us with the dress? We won’t keep you long—the car is just nearby.”
Numan looked toward his teacher, as if seeking permission to speak, then said softly:
“You can hire one of the porters over there.”
Hajj shook his head with a smile:
“No need for porters, Numan. It’s only one dress, light as you see… just put it in the car, receive the rest of the payment, and come back quickly!”
Then the man added:
“If you please, Mr. Numan.”
Numan lowered his gaze, murmuring quietly to himself:
“Just put the dress in the car… receive the payment… and come back quickly.”
He hesitated a moment, then lifted the dress, its weight magnified by the silence and awkwardness pressing on him. He stepped behind the man, slow and measured, while the girl strode ahead with confident, deliberate steps, her eyes seeming to declare vengeance:
“Follow me…” she seemed to say, as if dragging behind her what she claimed as hers.
02
Chapter Two – Something Beyond Endurance
It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and Numan had not returned to the shop. The siesta hour had settled in; the wholesale stores had closed their doors, as was customary in that ancient market of Damascus.
Three heavy hours of post-lunch pause had dragged upon Hajj Abu Mahmoud, the kind of pause that feels both interminable and oppressive. Slowly, the shops began to reclaim their rhythm, inch by inch, like a heart resuming its beat after a pause.
He descended from his loft, finding the door still locked, as if absence had stretched time into something endless. The sight held him for a moment, then he approached, opened it with his hand, and pushed his head outside, glancing left and right, as though searching for a phantom that had just slipped away.
He stepped in with slow, deliberate footsteps, inspecting corners and the servants’ room, calling out without sound, for Numan left no trace.
He settled behind his desk, turning over thoughts, staring into the silence that swallowed the room. Nothing filled it but the ticking hands of the clock, biting minutes with slow persistence. Some customers arrived, reluctantly received; their requests he postponed, waiting for his worker’s return, as if he could accomplish nothing in his absence.
Time stretched, gnawing at him, until at last Numan appeared.
He entered with leaden steps, a strange pallor scorching his face, as though a lifetime had passed over him, stealing something that could never be reclaimed.
It was not only physical exhaustion that weighed upon him, but a deep, hidden sense of humiliation that struck both heart and mind alike.
Fatigue settled in his features, yet within him lay an invisible wound that still bled, burning with unyielding fire.
The clock struck seven-thirty in the evening when Numan placed the money silently on the desk in front of his teacher.
Hajj lifted his eyes toward him, a mixture of surprise and concern etched across his face. In a gentle, quivering voice he asked, “Where have you been, my boy?… Why were you so late all this time?… What happened to you?…”
But Numan said nothing. He moved calmly toward the small water cooler, took a bottle, and drank it in one long gulp. Then he sat for a moment, wordless. After a pause, he rose and began preparing to close the shop, as if determined to draw the day’s curtain as quickly as possible.
It had been a long day… exceptional in every sense. As the clock approached eight, Hajj bid him farewell and left for home, leaving Numan to complete the final arrangements for closing.
Numan closed the shop with meticulous care, locked the central door, then checked the side locks from outside. He turned once more toward the interior, then set off along the street, dragging his weary feet toward the bus stop.
He boarded the bus and sat near the window, staring silently into the darkness beyond the scratched glass, as though searching for images that existed only in his mind. As the driver prepared to pull away, Hajj—Abu Mahmoud—suddenly climbed aboard, as if looking for someone.
Numan was here, yet not here. He did not acknowledge his teacher or anyone else on the bus; his eyes remained fixed on the shadowy void beyond the glass, unmoving.
Hajj sat beside him, speaking not a word.
Numan stayed lost in thought, his gaze suspended on something invisible, something without name or form. The conductor approached to collect the fare. Hajj quietly drew his money and, pointing to the conductor, said, “Two passengers.” Nothing more.
Nearly an hour passed, with silence reigning over the bus. When the stop where Hajj was to get off neared, he spoke loudly to the driver: “Next stop, please.”
Numan turned toward him, a sudden astonishment breaking across his face, one he could not conceal. In that fleeting moment, he realized for the first time that his teacher had been sitting beside him all along. The revelation deepened his unease, and his eyes became a silent question, searching for an answer that would not come.
The elder whispered, preparing to step down:
” I’ve taken care of the payment for you…”
Then, with a gentleness that carried an unmistakable warmth, he added:
” Don’t forget to take the two plates of sweets home with you…”
He moved as if to descend, but paused suddenly, turning back with a serene smile:
” And take good care of them! So you don’t forget… just as you did in the shop a little while ago!”
He waved farewell, leaving behind a quiet warmth that lingered in the young man’s heart, as if silently apologizing for something unforgettable.
03
Chapter Three: In the Embrace of Family
Numan returned home as he often did at the late hour of night, shadows of fatigue clinging to him, and threads of longing winding through his thoughts. His mother greeted him at the door with a warm smile, one she had long awaited to blossom upon her face. She was waiting not to scold him for being late, but to offer him the quiet joy of the heart, the kind that comes on nights of triumph.
Her weary face seemed luminous, as if her tiredness itself were adorned with love. She had spent the day absorbed in preparing a table worthy of her diligent son—the one whom effort had not worn down, but had rather refined.
His younger siblings swirled around her, their eyes chasing her every step, inhaling the scent of food that seeped from doors and windows, as though it were a herald of a festival. They were not merely awaiting dinner, but the moment of reunion, the celebration of Numan’s victory.
Numan entered the house with heavy steps, offering a muted greeting, dampened with fatigue and the faint sting of disillusionment… Yet when his eyes met his mother’s radiant face, and the bright, expectant faces of his siblings, warmth coursed through his chest, driving away exhaustion and bitterness. He offered a shy smile and extended his hands, presenting two plates of sweets as if offering his heart, brimming with gratitude.
The children erupted with shouts of joy the moment they saw the treats, rushing toward them and abandoning the table they had so long awaited. His mother tried gently to restore order, lifting one of the plates and saying softly, “This plate is enough for everyone… maybe for two days, or more!” But the little ones had already drowned in a world of sugar and wonder.
Numan asked his mother to let them have their freedom that night, then sat beside her, eating quietly, his eyes wandering over the faces of his small siblings, kindling in him a glow of contentment.
His mother, as she cut bread and handed it to him, said, “My joy is beyond words, my son. You have lifted my heart high.”
Numan smiled, gesturing toward his siblings:
“Here, with them, I find true happiness… Look at how they express their joy!”
Their mother laughed, saying,
“They waited for the food for hours, sniffing its aroma with their noses, watching me with their eyes, and then left it all for the sweetness of your success.”
His elder sister interjected proudly,
“But I helped you too, Mother, don’t forget!”
And his younger brother added,
“And I went to the grocer to buy the olive oil!”
One by one, the siblings recounted their contributions, each raising the banner of participation in their own way.
Numan laughed, speaking spontaneously,
“You are the kindest siblings in the world… Thank you, and thank you, Mother, and Father. Without your support, your patience, and your calm while I studied, I would not be where I am. But… beware! You must also care for your own studies… and leave some of the sweets for Mother and Father!”
His youngest sister protested, holding the dish in her hands,
“Don’t say you’ll leave some for the neighbors’ children too! They don’t give us anything at all!”
Their mother waved her hand gently but firmly,
“No, my daughter, we do not look at what others have in their hands… We are content, and thank God.”
Laughter spilled from here and there, filling the small corner with a gentle joy, until the mother rose, gathering the plates, her voice warm and tender as she said,
“Now, each of you must wash your hands and mouth, brush your teeth, and go to bed. And tomorrow… we shall hear your dreams.”
The little one giggled, teasing,
“No, Mama! I want to sleep with the taste of sweets in my mouth… so I can dream of them!”
The mother smiled, teasing back,
“And would you let the monster of cavities run wild in your mouth? Wash it, or… we shall not hear your dream in the morning because of the smell!”
When silence settled over the house, and everyone had fallen asleep, the father returned from work, exhaustion written clearly upon him. The mother sat beside him, recounting all that had happened, offering a small plate of sweets, placed on an old copper dish she had kept from her wedding trousseau.
The father, curious, asked,
“Where did Numan get the price for these fine sweets?”
The mother replied calmly,
“I did not ask… he works, and today was a happy and successful day. I did not wish to spoil his joy.”
The father studied her thoughtfully,
“I saw two boxes from well-known shops… I want to know how he got them.”
The mother, gently reassuring, said,
“I shall ask him in the morning. Let his joy remain pure tonight.”
The father nodded, smiling,
“Just don’t forget to send some to my parents, my siblings, their children… anyone you wish to share the happiness of his success with.”
His mother answered, whispering with quiet satisfaction:
” I would have, but there isn’t enough for all of them!”
After finishing her kitchen chores, she lay down beside him, and a gentle silence, soft as a prayer, enveloped them both.
Before dawn, Numan awoke, performed ablutions, and laid his prayer mat in a corner, far from the feet of his siblings. He prayed two rak‘ahs. Lifting his gaze toward his sleeping father, he murmured softly:
” Do not worry, Father… I am as you have always known me, God willing.”
He returned to his bed, recited the Mu‘awwidhat, and closed his eyes.
At the first call to prayer, he rose again, performed ablutions, prayed, and gently woke his siblings, helping them prepare for the day. He quietly set the table: bread, olives, thyme, yogurt, and tea. Then he took three bills from his pocket and handed them to his mother, saying:
” My teacher gave me a hundred liras to buy sweets, and then he gave me these three notes… he said they were a gift for my success. This is all the money, Mother.”
His mother took them, kissing his head tenderly:
” They are yours, my son, this is your joy… and your joy is more than enough for us.”
She then turned to Numan’s younger siblings and said, with firmness touched by warmth:
” And you, will you promise me that you will be like him?”
They all shouted together:
” Yes, Mother!”
But Numan seemed distant. His mother asked:
” What are you thinking about, my son?”
He replied in a calm voice:
” I am thinking of leaving the work at Mr. Abu Mahmoud’s, to prepare my papers for the university in Damascus… or at least for an intermediate institute.”
His mother spoke in a reassuring voice:
” I will speak with your father, and I don’t think he will object. You know best what your future should be, Numan.”
At that moment, his father stepped into the kitchen and said:
” Good morning!”
Everyone answered together:
” Good morning, Baba!”
He sat down beside Numan and patted his shoulder.
” Congratulations on your success, my son!”
Numan kissed his father’s hand and whispered:
” May God bless you both, Father and Mother.”
Then he asked permission to leave. His father walked him to the door and said quietly:
” Do not fear my sternness… it is only because I fear for you. I heard your conversation with your mother. What lies ahead is your future, and you know it better than anyone… I trust you.”
He patted his son’s shoulder once more and added:
” Go safely.”
Numan left early for work, while his father returned to bed, determined to sleep until eight. By then, Numan’s younger brothers would already be preparing for their walk to the kuttab—those small neighborhood houses where an elderly woman, known simply as “al-Khaja,” taught them verses from the Qur’an. She knew only the short chapters of “Amma” and “Tabarak,” yet she passed them on with patience and quiet devotion, shaping memory with love.
When the morning clamor faded, and the mother finished her household tasks, she would sit at her aghbani machine. With threads of colored silk, she stitched delicate patterns onto plain cloth, weaving sustenance through her needle, as she had done for years.
The embroidered aghbani was her livelihood. She received the fabric and the threads from merchants, and returned them adorned with fine lace-like motifs, the touch of her hands turning necessity into art. Sometimes, one of her sons would accompany her to deliver the finished work. For many years, that had been Numan’s task—until, in time, the duty passed to his younger brother.
04
Chapter Four A Return, Once More
Morning had just broken over the narrow alleys of old Damascus when Numan slipped into the fabric shop, as he did every day—early, ahead of even the first whispers of light. With practiced hands, he turned the locks, then set about sweeping the floor, carefully arranging bolts of cloth as if he were unearthing some hidden treasure.
Before his master arrived, he boiled water and prepared a cup of herbal tea, a ritual he performed every morning without fail.
Haj Abu Mahmoud, the shop’s owner, stepped in with his usual steady greeting:
“Good morning!”
Numan answered softly, almost deferentially:
“Good morning, Master.”
But this morning, the old man surprised him with a faint smile and a gentle tone:
“Today… I’d rather have coffee instead of herbs. And we’ll drink it together. Can you make coffee?”
Numan replied as he headed toward the small back room:
“Of course, Master. But… forgive me, I don’t care for coffee.”
From behind the door came the old man’s voice, carrying a hidden smile:
“You’ll drink it. You’ve never refused me before, have you?”
Numan answered with a weary smile of his own:
“All right… as you wish, Master.”
Then, beneath his breath, he muttered to himself:
“And what’s coffee without a cigarette? They’re twins that never part…”
The old man asked how much sugar he should add. Numan replied simply:
“However you like it.”
Minutes later, Numan returned carrying a small tray. On it rested two cups of coffee and a glass of cold water. He placed it on the little drawer table and offered the first cup to his master with a faint, almost forced smile:
“Here you are, Master…”
The old man studied him with a probing look before speaking, curiosity softening his tone:
“You seem unlike yourself this morning. May I ask why?”
Numan drew in a breath, then answered, his voice straining to mask the tension within:
“It’s nothing… only that I’m certain you’ve never truly been a companion of coffee.”
The man let out a brief, amused laugh.
“You’re right about that. But today I wanted a cup in your company—along with the details of last evening. Tell me, Numan… from the moment you left carrying that bolt of fabric, until your return just before closing, what happened?”
Numan looked at him intently before speaking.
“But, Master… would you be angered if I asked three things of you?”
The old man raised his brows.
“This time only… I won’t be angered. Go on, say what you must.”
Numan cleared his throat.
“First, forgive me, but I do not wish to speak of what happened yesterday. Second, I would like to return the money you gave me; what you already offered for the sweets is more than enough.”
He placed three folded notes gently before his teacher.
The old man studied him for a moment, then asked,
“And the third?”
Numan’s reply carried both resolve and sorrow.
“I ask that you find another hand for the shop. I will remain in your service until you do.”
A silence lingered, the old man reading the spaces between Numan’s words. At last he said, his tone quieter:
“And what else?”
Just then, a man of dignified bearing entered the shop. He stepped toward them slowly and, with measured courtesy, asked:
“Peace be upon you… Forgive my intrusion. May I join you?”
Haj Abu Mahmoud rose to greet him warmly.
“And upon you peace and God’s mercy. You are most welcome. We were just about to speak of what happened last evening… Please, sit with us.”
Meanwhile, Numan carried the cups and glass into the side room. There he sat in heavy silence, finishing his coffee with a fire burning inside him—a refusal he could not name. For he could not accept his master’s easy welcome to the man who had stayed silent when his own daughter shamed them before all.
The man asked Haj Abu Mahmoud to speak with him in private. The old merchant turned and called out loudly:
“Numan, my son! Bring us some sweets from the shop you bought from yesterday… take the money from the table.”
Numan left the store. About half an hour later, he returned carrying a tray of baklava. He set a small plate before his teacher without saying a word, then slipped quickly back outside. Crossing to the opposite sidewalk, he lit a cigarette and waited for the man to leave.
Customers began to arrive one by one. Haj motioned for them to wait until Numan returned.
One customer called over a porter, who soon appeared asking after Numan. The porter pointed across the street.
“There he is, standing on the sidewalk.”
The customer said,
“Please, call him. He knows the goods I set aside. Load them into my car, and here’s your pay in advance.”
He gestured toward a white car parked just behind a truck, then added,
“The rear door is open. Be careful with the merchandise.”
The porter turned and shouted,
“Mr. Numan! Don’t cut off our livelihood—there’s work to do!”
Numan reentered silently, pointed to a large cardboard box, and said:
“Carry this to merchant Abu Saeed’s car. Come back if you want more work.”
The customers kept asking for what they needed, and Numan answered them all with patience and courtesy. One man asked about a robe he had once returned. Numan replied with quiet regret:
“Sorry, Abu Zuhair, we sold that robe yesterday.”
The merchant pressed that one be arranged for him quickly. Numan turned to his master, who spoke with the customer and promised to try.
The stranger remained where he was, his gaze fixed on Numan with a heavy silence. Numan pretended not to notice, lingering by the door as if his presence there could shield him.
At last, Haj Abu Mahmoud called to him. Numan stepped closer and answered gently:
“Yes, my teacher, shall I bring you something?”
Haj Abu Mahmoud gestured toward the man.
“No… but Mr. Ahmad has something to ask of you.”
Numan sighed.
“God willing, what else does he want now?”
The Haj rose, adjusting his robe with a calm smile.
“It is time for prayer. I will go to the mosque.”
He picked up a small leather bag that held a towel and his worn slippers, then moved toward the door. With a faint smile, he bid them farewell as he stepped outside—leaving Numan on the threshold of a new moment, unlike any other afternoon before it.
05
Chapter Five The Apology
The man extended his hand with a quiet smile, his voice calm as he said:
“Peace be upon you.”
Numan lifted his eyes toward him and returned the greeting curtly. He shook the man’s hand slowly, as though something within him resisted, yet he yielded at last to the courtesy of the meeting.
The visitor lowered himself into a seat, raising his hands slightly as though seeking permission. His voice carried a faint hesitation:
“Haj Abu Mahmoud, the shopkeeper, told me about you—or so I understood. He said you are a young man of discipline, one who does not glance at passersby but fixes his sight firmly on the path ahead, on the purpose you pursue. He has spoken of you often, and I thought the time had come for us to know one another more closely.”
He drew a breath and continued:
“I won’t take much of your time; I know you have duties to attend to. My name is Ahmad Abdul Karim. I am a structural engineer, a Sunni Muslim, forty-five years old, from the city of Beirut. I run an engineering office there and serve as a partner in one of the largest construction firms—founded long ago by my late wife’s father, may God have mercy on him. Later her brother-in-law joined us, along with several of her relatives who are established engineers and contractors.”
He paused briefly, as if steadying his breath, then lowered his voice:
“My wife and young son died in a terrible accident in Beirut about a year ago. I was left with my only daughter, Muna—the very one who was with me yesterday.”
Silence hung in the air before he went on, his tone trembling with emotion:
“Since that tragedy, I have lived only for her. I do whatever she asks, so she will not feel the absence of her mother and brother, nor suffer from her solitude. Yesterday… when she wronged you, Numan, I swear she did not mean it. She could not sleep that night. I spoke to her in a voice she had never heard from me before, reminding her of what she had done.”
Numan lifted his head slowly, his voice tinged with sorrow.
“May God have mercy on those you lost, and grant them paradise… but forgive me—what do I have to do with this?”
Mr. Ahmad’s smile was steeped in grief.
“You are right to wonder. What do you have to do with what happened? Why are we here in Damascus? Why were we searching for this fabric in particular? And why did Muna react with such anger when she found it in your shop, thinking you were unwilling to help?”
He drew a deep breath before continuing.
“What I am about to tell you is not an excuse for her behavior, nor because she is spoiled, or because she is my only child. It is simply because she is my life. She is a young girl, tender-hearted, who lost her mother not long ago and still clings to her memory.”
Suddenly, he fell silent. From his pocket he drew a handkerchief and wiped away tears that had broken free without permission, until the whites of his eyes were stained with red. He bent his head, as though to hide the weight of his emotion, and spoke in a voice choked with pain:
“Her mother burned to death in that accident… and her brother too.”
His words trembled as he pressed on.
“She was wearing a new dress, designed by one of the finest tailors. She would have looked like a queen in it, on the day of our daughter Muna’s graduation celebration. Her grandparents—my wife’s parents, may they rest in peace—had arranged that party as a surprise for her, to honor her success in earning her high school diploma with distinction. But the tragedy struck as my wife and little boy traveled with her parents to the hotel that had been reserved for the occasion. What remained of that dress were only a few scraps, barely recognizable. The largest piece left is the one Muna keeps with her.
For months she has been insistent on finding fabric like it, to have a dress made in memory of her mother, her brother, and her grandparents. She and her aunts searched through every fabric shop in Lebanon, until the tailor who had created the original dress told them where the fabric had come from: a merchant in Damascus, who supplied it only for very special orders. And so we came. For a week now we have searched, from morning till night.”
At first, Numan listened with a cool detachment, his back resting squarely against the chair. But slowly, his expression began to shift. He leaned forward, reached out his hand once more toward the man, and spoke with a voice heavy with hurt:
“Forgive me, sir, if anything in my behavior offended you. But why did you leave me behind yesterday? You even stepped into shops that had nothing to do with your search. I felt as though you were punishing me, as though I were meant to walk behind you like a servant. Was I imagining it? Please, forgive me. My thoughts tangled, and it wounded me deeply.”
He lowered his head, struggling to shape what lay unspoken inside him—trying to explain that what had happened was not mere harsh words, but a blow to something fragile within him, something still unnamed:
“I kept everything locked away, for the sake of my own dignity… and out of respect for my teacher. He once told me he saw in me a reflection of his own unrealized dreams, a trust he had carried but never fulfilled in his youth. He was betting on me. That is why I begged the merchants and porters not to tell him what they had witnessed. Yes, I am only a worker, but I know how to think, and I know where I stand. So please, sir… leave me be. Tell your daughter my apologies, or tell her the truth yourself. Convey to her also my sorrow for the loss of her mother, her brother, and her grandparents.”
At that moment, Haj Abu Mahmoud entered the shop. Numan instantly rose to his feet, apologizing once more to the guest, then turned to greet his teacher at the door with deep respect:
“May God accept, my teacher.”
The teacher replied calmly, “May God accept from us and from you what is good.”
Taking his seat behind the desk, he asked, “Were you able to secure Mr. Abu Zuhayr’s request? I met him at the mosque, and he asked me about it again.”
Numan approached with light steps, lowered his voice, and whispered, “Teacher, the order Abu Zuhayr is waiting for… it’s with this man. Please, I do not wish to speak with him again.”
Then, raising his head, he added in an audible tone: “With your permission, I will go to perform the noon prayer.”
Mr. Ahmed remained seated, staring at the papers in his hands as if he were searching for something beyond mere calculations.
Numan returned from his prayer to find the bolt of cloth spread across the table—no trace of its companions. He looked at his teacher with surprise, but the latter smiled, his calm voice tinged with an enigmatic warmth:
“Please, measure two and a half meters of this cloth, and adjust its details. Mr. Abu Zuhair will come to collect it. Get some good wrapping paper and a proper bag… from the retail shops. And this time, the cost… from your own pocket.”
Noticing the astonishment on Numan’s face, he added softly:
“We will talk later.”
Numan followed the instructions carefully, returning shortly with the neat bag, handing the wrapped cloth to his teacher:
“Here you go, my teacher.”
Minutes later, the merchant Abu Zuhair arrived. Numan handed him the cloth, the teacher collected the payment, and the merchant left swiftly.
Numan approached his teacher, his voice cautious:
“Please… how did this happen?”
The teacher smiled, a quiet, knowing smile:
“Simply. A man had purchased more cloth than he needed—only two and a half meters—but paid more than he could afford. Meanwhile, we had another merchant who needed the remaining piece, no matter the cost. We fulfilled both requests, and I considered you the retail seller who sold Mr. Ahmed… and every profit earned from him goes to you, without your knowing.”
He then produced a sum of money, offering it with gentle insistence:
“This is yours. It is your due.”
Numan spoke with sincere honesty:
“Forgive me, my teacher… I work here, and I receive my wage regularly. I don’t believe I’ve done anything deserving this.”
The teacher shook his head, returning the money to a small safe, his tone firm yet tender:
“Then I shall keep it for you until your service ends. Now, it’s nearly closing time. I will go upstairs for my meal and rest. You close the shop… and you will find someone waiting at the door.”
After a brief pause, his teacher added, carefully choosing his words:
“Consider this an invitation to lunch. I trust its host, so do not embarrass him by declining. I have faith in you and your judgment, so do as you see fit… but do not forget to reopen the shop after noon. May God keep you safe.”
The teacher ascended the side staircase with quiet steps, murmuring prayers and words of forgiveness. Numan remained standing, questions crowding his mind:
“Who is this man? Why has he invited me? Can I trust him? Or should I politely decline?”
Yet a faint voice within urged him toward acceptance… perhaps curiosity, perhaps something else… a sense of fairness.
06
Chapter Six – An Invitation to Lunch
Numan closed the shop door behind him and stood on the sidewalk, waiting. Moments barely passed before a black Buick eased through the suffocating traffic and stopped in front of him. The window rolled down, revealing Mr. Ahmed’s smiling face, his voice tinged with urgency:
“Quick, my boy! The street is narrow, and the cars behind me have started honking!”
Numan hesitated for a moment, then opened the door and slid into the seat beside him, closing it quietly before offering a shy greeting. Mr. Ahmed received him with genuine warmth, saying:
“Welcome, Numan, and thank you for accepting my invitation… no, thank you doubly, for believing me and trusting me!”
The man fully understood that Numan’s presence was owed entirely to Hajj Abu Mahmoud’s recommendation—the elder who lived in the boy’s heart like the trunk of a childhood tree.
Numan replied gently, with careful politeness:
“But I hope we won’t be gone too long. I must be back at the shop by quarter to five to prepare a few things before Hajj arrives.”
Mr. Ahmed smiled reassuringly:
“Do not worry. I have already informed Hajj, and everything is arranged with him. We won’t be away for long… first, let’s just get through this traffic.”
The car wound through the streets of Damascus until it stopped at the entrance of an elegant hotel, where Mr. Ahmed and his daughter stayed. They ascended together to the room he had reserved, and as soon as they entered, he gestured for Numan to sit on a couch placed by the window, then called out in a warm tone:
“Muna! My dear… we’ve arrived, and with me is Numan, who insisted on coming along to apologize to you!”
Numan froze in place, staring at the man with unhidden astonishment.
“Apologize?! What do you mean, sir?”
Mr. Ahmed waved his hand vaguely, and whispered, almost teasingly:
“Don’t overthink it, Numan… just cooperate with me this once… please.”
But Numan would not play along. He stood abruptly, his voice carrying a trace of pain:
“I’m sorry… I cannot take part in a charade. What happened yesterday was enough, and I have no desire to repeat it. I will return to my work… peace be upon you.”
He moved toward the door with firm steps, yet Mr. Ahmed followed, gently grasping his arm and whispering with sincere pleading:
“Please, stay… just this once. It is I who must apologize to you; I asked nothing impossible of you… just give her a chance… I beg you.”
Glimmers of hope shone in his eyes as he held Numan’s arm, as if clutching a lifeline. At that moment, a sharp, angry voice cut through the room:
“I don’t want to see him! Send him away, Father! I don’t want to see that fool!”
It was Muna’s voice. Yet Mr. Ahmed did not release the boy’s arm; instead, he gestured for him to follow to the lobby on the ground floor, where they could speak quietly.
They settled into a quiet corner of the hall, and Mr. Ahmed spoke in a low voice, a blend of sorrow and entreaty:
“Let us forget what has passed and start anew. I told you about the incident, but I did not tell you how deeply it wounded Muna. To lose a mother, a brother, and grandparents all at once… it is more than the mind can bear, more than the heart can endure. After that day, she became someone else entirely. She trusts no one, and any act she sees as touching her mother’s memory, she perceives as a personal attack.”
He paused briefly, then continued, looking into Numan’s eyes:
“Your behavior yesterday… your calm, your self-restraint… it was nobility beyond measure. But Muna saw it as disregard, a hidden insult. That piece she carried… it belonged to her mother and never left her side since her passing. The surge of memory she carries makes her see threat in every approach, deception in every kindness. Since her mother’s death, she walks upon an open wound, hurting and being hurt without even realizing it.”
He wiped a tear that had slipped down his cheek and sighed:
“I did not ask you to apologize because you were wrong, only to ease her pain, to help her step out of the shadows of a tragedy that never leaves her. Believe me, this is not the first time she has lost a friend and gained enmity because of the way she expresses herself. We lost our relatives in Beirut… and so we came to Damascus, searching for a new beginning, just as we search for the genuine Damascene fabric.”
Then he offered a weary smile and extended his hand to Numan, saying:
“Shall we shake hands again? I need a friend like you… and I feel that God sent you to me. I don’t know why I felt at ease speaking with you… but oh, the weight I carry, and the bitterness of that event that changed me even more than it changed my daughter, forever. Since I lost my wife and child, Muna has become my whole life… I even see her as an extension of my soul, and my only concern now is to protect her.”
Though open to others, Mr. Ahmed carried a constant unease in his heart, preventing him from fully approaching. The fear of Muna’s anger, of letting her down, of committing any wrong against her, ruled his actions. That old guilt, never leaving him, made him sacrifice his pride before Numan, hoping he might save her.
Numan looked at the outstretched hand, then shook it calmly, saying:
“Your friendship honors me, sir… and I will serve you as best I can. But your daughter… that is another matter. I cannot engage with her… no conversation, not even a glance. Please, understand my position.”
Mr. Ahmed smiled with gentle compassion and said:
“You are right, my son… yet, thank you. Just… let me invite you tomorrow for a simple lunch.”
07
Chapter Seven – The Gamble
The next day, Numan closed the shop at noon. The moment he stepped onto the sidewalk, he saw Mr. Ahmed waiting nearby, leaning against his car as if watching the hours rather than the street.
They drove together, the car flowing through the streets of Damascus until they reached a parking lot in the heart of the city. Mr. Ahmed cast a careful glance around him, then laughed and said:
“Here is your city… do you know a good Levantine restaurant?”
Numan smiled quietly, shaking his head:
“Believe me, sir, I know no part of Damascus except the way to the shop.”
The man chuckled, then moved toward a small store, asking for a recommendation, returning moments later with Numan’s hand in his, saying enthusiastically:
“Come… someone directed me to a nearby restaurant.”
They walked together, turning right and left as if feeling their way through a memory that was not quite theirs, until Numan hesitated and asked cautiously:
“Where exactly are we going?”
Mr. Ahmed smiled enigmatically:
“Here we are!”
They stopped in front of an elegant restaurant, from whose window wafted the warm scent of spices that seemed to echo memory itself. A smiling waiter greeted them and led them to a table that, at first glance, appeared unprepared—but a black woman’s wallet and scattered remnants told another story.
Numan sat down hesitantly, his eyes lingering on the wallet, studying it without comment. Yet his voice betrayed him, spilling words shyly:
“Whatever you wish, sir… or as you may have agreed beforehand with the lady, and prepared it as… or perhaps it should appear as if there was no preparation or prior arrangement at all.”
Mr. Ahmed burst into laughter:
“We’ve uncovered Mr. Numan!”
Before Numan could respond, a girl approached, wearing black pants and a long-sleeved gray sweater. Addressing her father, she said:
“You’re very late, Dad… I ate half the nuts out of hunger!”
Her father gestured toward Numan:
“Meet him properly… this is the smart, aware young man I told you about.”
She replied with a casual tone that carried a hint of indifference, waving toward the waiter—or so the silent guest perceived:
“Let me eat first… conversation comes later.”
The food arrived, and they ate in silence. Numan took only a few bites from his plate, never lifting his gaze.
Mr. Ahmed nodded to the waiter to attend to him, and soon the table before Numan brimmed with an array of dishes.
Beneath the taste of the food, thoughts drifted through their minds like silent ghosts. Muna ate with a fervor that betrayed her hunger, as if it had frayed her nerves, yet gradually, her features softened, and the hardness etched on her face began to fade.
Numan noticed the shift unfolding, yet he remained poised, his eyes tracing only the rim of his plate, occasionally darting to Muna’s face across from him. She, catching his guarded glance, returned a fleeting look, as if silently asking:
“Are you ignoring me? Or afraid of embarrassment?”
Numan looked inward once more, sinking into a few seconds of thought… something, or perhaps someone, speaking to him—seeking a silent dialogue amid the quiet within.
“Numan, you, the stubborn young man from the countryside… when you entered Damascus, your certainties began to tremble without your noticing. The city, its shops and markets, with their crowds, noise, and vivid colors, have shaken the foundations you thought immovable.”
And in a pause between bites, she whispered:
“It seems you do not like to speak while eating… is that so?”
He looked, and saw her hiding her eyes behind a veil of fatigue and hunger, a faint spark of something else… something like an apology she could not voice.
Numan did not need much insight to realize that this once-hard girl was no longer herself. Something had broken inside her, or perhaps bent under the weight of exhaustion, or under the quiet presence of him, which demanded nothing and met her harshness only with rare patience.
Muna, with her faltering way of speaking, tried to say:
” I am not as you see me…”
And Numan, with his calm perception, heard the hidden voice, smiled, and did nothing more than fill her glass of water without a word.
Numan raised his head slowly, paused from eating for a moment, then smiled and said gently:
” Not exactly… I suppose I do not manage it well, especially at sudden times like this.”
She smiled lightly, as if something fragile had cracked within her. She had not expected him to respond with such composure, without anger, without reserve, only that cautious kindness.
Silence settled lightly between them after the quiet, as if woven from shy flakes of falling cotton.
Muna, once quick to ignite, now seemed to feel her words with care, as one feels their way through the darkness of their own heart.
Mr. Ahmed interjected, laughing:
” Muna, do not embarrass our guest… He is patient, but he does not like surprises, as we saw yesterday and the day before!”
They all laughed lightly, even Muna, though there was a hint of hesitation in her smile.
She looked at him, but this time without sharpness:
” I was angry yesterday and the day before… very. And I admit I did not handle it well.”
Numan reviewed the moment with her. Despite the first sting of humiliation, despite it being the first personal shock to rattle his quiet pride, he… especially after glimpsing the true humanity in Muna—her fatigue, the harshness wrapped in hidden fear, her inability to express softness—alongside her father’s words about her plight, all of it stirred something in his heart… not weakness or surrender, but a deep sense of shared humanity.
Moreover, today, since she had entered the restaurant, the harsh girl he once knew had not fully manifested. She was weary, her sharpness dulled, and he, a young man raised to respect human frailty even in an opponent, could not turn away from her.
He tried to end the inner struggle that had arisen before it could deepen, between rigid past convictions and his innate desire to seek excuses, hoping for change in people. Muna now embodied the stark contradiction he found within himself, so he listened to her—not because he had abandoned his old beliefs entirely, but because life was teaching him a new lesson:
” Hearts are not white or black, but intertwined shades of color,” as his teacher once said.
He responded to her apology with a respectful nod:
” And I apologize too… if it seemed I diminished the value of something dear to you… I did not mean to.”
They paused for a moment, but this time the silence was gentle, light, as if something small had been shared between two hearts.
The waiter approached and asked if they would like coffee. Muna said:
” If Mr. Numan does not mind, I prefer my coffee bitter.”
Numan replied with a calm smile:
” I like it bitter too… though I often drink it sweet.”
Mr. Ahmed gestured to the waiter:
” Then, three cups of bitter coffee… and leave the sweets to me.”
Muna laughed and said to her father:
” No doubt you will order us knafeh or something like that… as always.”
He winked at her:
” For you… and to mend what words have broken… sweets heal what speech has spoiled.”
Then he turned to Numan with gentle, fatherly warmth:
” What do you think? Aren’t we at the start of a good path?”
Numan responded with a clear smile:
” When hearts are clear… any path is good.”
Then he excused himself to wash his hands, and Mr. Ahmed followed. As the water ran over his fingers, the elder said:
” The day after tomorrow is Friday… a day off. Shall we spend it together? Damascus holds places worth seeing.”
Numan replied, drying his face with a paper towel:
” I have some obligations the day after tomorrow… ”
Mr. Ahmed interrupted, smiling:
” Then postpone them… I will see you at nine in the morning at the usual spot. Do not refuse, please. Haven’t you seen how delighted we were to have you today?”
Numan nodded in silence, and they returned to the table.
When they reached the vicinity of the Harika, and before Numan stepped out of the car, Muna gathered her courage and said in a voice so soft only Numan could hear:
” It passed so swiftly… as if what came before… is the only time that feels like truth…”
Then, in a voice loud enough to be heard:
” –Thank you for your kindness today… and for your patience as well.”
Numan turned to her, a gentle warmth in his eyes that had not been there before, and said in a calm tone:
” No thanks are needed… or rather, I was the guest today, and it is I who should be thanking you, not the other way around.”
He gently closed the door and walked with calm steps, yet his footsteps were lighter than usual, as if something in his heart had begun to stir in a silent motion that could neither be seen nor spoken.
Numan entered the shop with a quieter pace than usual, offering a greeting in a rich voice tinged with a hint of daydream, then moved toward the display table as if navigating through a forest of restless thoughts. Muna’s words still echoed in his ears:
” It passed so swiftly… as if what came before… is the only time that feels like truth…”
Hajj Abu Mahmoud was arranging some invoices behind a small desk in the corner. He looked up at him and smiled:
” –You’re a little late, my boy… but your face tells me that this time has not gone to waste.”
Numan replied as he opened the other front door:
” Yes… it was a different encounter. As if I met a person and visited a place unlike the usual.”
Hajj Abu Mahmoud approached him, gently placing a hand on his shoulder:
” –Some meetings are like rain, Numan. You never know when they will fall, yet they leave something in you that cannot be forgotten.”
Numan lowered his head, then spoke in a warm tone tinged with melancholy:
” How strange life is… sometimes the stranger feels closer than the familiar.”
Hajj Abu Mahmoud let out his gentle laugh and said playfully:
” –And have you begun to see what you once could not? Or have your eyes simply softened?”
Numan did not answer immediately. He leaned against the table and began folding some fabrics quietly, as if folding away a part of his own hesitation. After a moment of soft silence, he spoke:
” –Muna… she was different today. Less harsh… as if something has shifted.”
Hajj Abu Mahmoud replied while rearranging some papers:
” –Perhaps it is you who has changed, Numan. Sometimes, when we quiet ourselves inside, we hear another’s voice in a new way.”
A short silence fell, broken only by the precise rustle of folded cloth.
Then Numan lifted his head, staring at the light reflecting off the front window, speaking almost to himself:
” –I do not know exactly what has changed… but I no longer see her as someone who caused me pain. There is something… something that resembles regret in her eyes, or perhaps it is me… I have begun to read her differently.”
Hajj Abu Mahmoud approached, placing a hand gently on his shoulder, whispering with the weight of wisdom:
” –Do not be afraid to feel, my boy. A heart that will not soften… ages too soon.”
Then he returned to his work, leaving Numan in his reverie, folding the last piece of fabric before him. But this time, he lingered on it, perhaps because its color… reminded him of the gray sweater Muna had worn today.
And while he was immersed in that velvet silence, the bell above the door rang. A customer entered, and Numan stirred gently, returning to the storefront with his usual smile…
But his heart was no longer as it had been before today.
The man was in his forties, neatly dressed, his features carrying a familiar trace of fatigue to Numan, as if he had come from a long day that had given him no pause to catch his breath. Numan greeted him warmly, motioning for him as he circled behind the display table:
” –At your service… what would you like to see?”
The man’s eyes roamed over the neatly arranged fabrics as he answered:
” –I’m looking for a cloth that feels like summer… light, yet with dignity.”
Numan smiled, as if the request had struck a chord within him:
” –There is a new type that arrived a few days ago… light, yet it holds its shape, like someone who knows their worth without pretending.”
He unfolded a piece of pale sky-blue fabric, laying it gently on the table. The customer’s hand reached out, touching it with silent admiration, then said:
” –It’s like the shadow of a cloud on the sea.”
Numan nodded but did not reply. He felt something in the words that gave them meaning, as if understanding them rearranged the places of their speaker within him. This moment, in all its simplicity, resembled a story that begins without any noise.
As the customer busied himself with choosing colors, Hajj Abu Mahmoud’s voice came from the back:
” –Do not underestimate small moments, Numan… they make the difference between an ordinary day and a day worth telling.”
Numan replied without turning:
” –Can life really change because of a glance? Or a word spoken without intention?”
Hajj laughed as he approached the storefront:
” –Life itself can begin with a misprint… or a dot in the wrong place.”
Then he looked at the customer, teasingly:
” –And sometimes, it begins with a stitch that isn’t quite right.”
Everyone laughed, and the atmosphere became warm and familiar. The customer selected the amount of fabric he needed, paid, and left his address on a small card. As he departed, he waved his hand and said:
” –I’ll be expecting my order tomorrow.”
The store fell quiet again, but it was a different kind of quiet… scented with something new, like the smell of rain after the first breeze touches the parched earth.
Numan sat behind the table, taking out a small notebook hidden in the lower drawer. He wrote in a slanted hand:
“Today, I felt that hearts do not heal on their own… someone must touch them, with a word, or an unexpected kindness.”
He closed the notebook and leaned back against the wall. In his eyes… a fragment of his dream had begun to bloom.
The next morning, the sun had started climbing the sky, and the air still carried the chill of early dawn. Numan stood before the fabric shop window, arranging the pieces with care, when a small boy entered, clutching an elegantly wrapped package in his thin hand.
The boy approached cautiously and whispered:
” –Uncle… someone gave me this letter and said I should bring it to you.”
Numan reached out and took the envelope, surprised, then asked the little boy:
” –Who gave this to you?”
The boy answered, candidly:
” –A girl, a bit tall, black hair tied back… she was standing at the corner of the street. She didn’t say her name, but she said I’d know who she is.”
Numan thanked the boy and handed him a piece of candy from the table. Then he opened the envelope slowly and found a small piece of paper inside, written in elegant handwriting:
“Not all our beginnings are perfect… but some moments rearrange our insides. Thank you for not being harsh. – M”
The heart needed no explicit signature; it knew well where the letters pointed. He folded the paper carefully and stared through the shop glass toward the indicated corner… empty except for the shadow of a tree dancing with the breeze.
He returned to his table, sat on the wooden chair, holding the note, and smiled for the first time that morning… a light, warm smile, tinged with faint gratitude.
At that moment, Hajj Abu Mahmoud entered, and Numan startled, quickly hiding the note.
” –Good morning, Hajj!”
” –Good morning, relaxed hearts! Why are you smiling alone? Did a beautiful dream wake you?”
Numan laughed shyly and said:
” –Perhaps… or maybe it’s just a new day worth smiling at.”
Hajj approached and patted his shoulder, saying:
” –Perhaps you’ve begun a new chapter, my son… write it with care, but do not hesitate.”