PART TWO
08
Chapter Eight – On the Banks of the Barada
On a Friday morning, while the town still lay wrapped in deep slumber, Numan, as was his habit, roused his siblings for the dawn prayer. Afterward, they gathered around a quiet breakfast table, where the aroma of fresh bread and fragrant tea lingered like a gentle promise.
When they finished, Numan approached his mother, his voice calm but insistent, seeking permission to go to Damascus. She regarded him with warm, curious eyes and asked:
” –To Damascus? Is there something important?”
He answered with a shy, hesitant tone:
” –I will tell you later. I promise to explain everything in detail.”
His mother studied him for a long moment, then smiled with quiet approval. In only a few moments, she granted her blessing.
By eight o’clock, the doors of departure were open. Numan wore his finest clothes, combed his hair with care, and his face carried both anticipation and joy. He kissed his mother farewell, her eyes shining with a mix of pride and concern, and set off toward Damascus.
His first stop was his teacher’s house, the one to whom he had confided his secrets the day before. The teacher greeted him at the door, pressed five hundred-lira notes into his hand, and whispered:
” –Do not question me… just take it, and be the host today. Live it as if it were a promise that will never come again.”
Numan thanked him warmly and hurried on to catch the bus.
Upon arriving in Damascus, he noticed the gray Buick parked by the roadside, Mr. Ahmed behind the wheel, waiting for him.
He slid into the car and greeted brightly:
” –Good morning! I hope I’m not keeping you waiting. Or am I late?”
Mr. Ahmed smiled and replied:
” –I just arrived… barely two minutes to nine. Shall we go?”
” –Where to?” Numan asked.
Driving, Mr. Ahmed said:
” –Muna is waiting for us… she planned this day herself. What do you think?”
Numan hesitated for a moment, then asked:
” –Shouldn’t we share the planning with her?”
Mr. Ahmed laughed without answering, as if letting the surprises speak for themselves.
They arrived at the hotel where Mr. Ahmed and his daughter were staying. Parking the car, they headed to the elevator. Numan sat in the hotel lobby while Mr. Ahmed made a call, then returned to him, saying:
” –We’ll go to our room first. Come with me.”
Upstairs, they walked down a long corridor until they reached the door of a room. Mr. Ahmed knocked, and Muna opened it, still in her sleepwear, traces of slumber lingering on her face. She whispered something to her father, then stepped back inside.
Mr. Ahmed invited Numan in, but he hesitated. Muna returned to the door and said:
” –Please, go ahead. Father just went to fetch something from the car and will be back in a moment.”
Numan stayed outside until Mr. Ahmed returned, apologized, and invited him in again.
They entered an elegant sitting room, almost like a small apartment. Mr. Ahmed called out:
” –Muna! Do you have something for us to drink?”
Her voice drifted from the adjacent room, sleepy and soft:
” –Everything’s in the kitchen… just let me sleep a little more.”
Mr. Ahmed turned to Numan with a smile:
” –We’ll make the coffee ourselves. Will you help me?”
Together, they went into the kitchen. Mr. Ahmed laid out the supplies, and they carefully prepared the coffee, then sat, waiting for her return.
After a short while, Muna joined them, wearing a simple summer dress—not black or gray this time—and her long hair hastily tied back. She sat quietly, yet seemed more open than during their first meeting. She said, teasingly:
” –I guess the coffee’s ready… or did you make it just to let it cool?”
Mr. Ahmed laughed:
” –Yes, Numan prepared it as if he were studying for an exam.”
They sipped their coffee amid lighthearted banter, the laughter flowing like sweet melodies. Gradually, the ice between Muna and Numan began to melt. They spoke of simple things: the weather, the city’s crowds, childhood memories.
After coffee, Muna suggested:
” –How about we go to a restaurant on the banks of the Barada?”
They agreed immediately, and the three set off in Mr. Ahmed’s car. The restaurant welcomed them with the scent of fresh bread and the gentle sound of flowing water.
They sat at a table near the river, the scene enchanting. Yet something had shifted for Numan this day; this time, he felt like the host of the invitation. He embraced the feeling with ease and impulse, prepared mentally, and avoided his usual internal debates about spending. He focused instead on the quality of everything ordered and on promptness in serving.
The table was shaded by the branches of a jasmine tree, filling the space with its fragrance. The air was soft, the water rippled gently to the rhythm of their conversation, and quiet music flowed from a high-quality speaker tucked in the corner.
That day, Muna seemed more at ease, her usual tone softened and tinged with gentle humor and clever remarks.
She looked at the Fattoush plate and said:
” –How can something so simple hold all this beauty? It looks like a painting made by a hungry artist!”
Numan laughed warmly:
” –Maybe because the hungry see any food as finer than it is… or perhaps because whoever prepares it does so with a different spirit.”
Her eyes sparkled as she replied:
” –No, it’s because we are together, and the taste is not made by the food alone.”
As the dishes arrived, Muna playfully teased the names:
” –Sheikh al-Mahshi! Sounds like a real sheikh, maybe he’ll preach to us before we eat him!”
Numan laughed from the heart, feeling for the first time that the distance between them was fading. She spoke with lightness, her eyes shining with newfound life. She shared small adventures, her love for reading and writing reflections. Numan asked, impressed:
” –Do you really write? I did not expect that.”
She replied shyly:
” –Sometimes, when the world feels too tight around me, I escape to the page.”
She replied gently:
” –Paper is a faithful friend… it asks no questions and passes no judgment.”
Today’s meeting was unlike yesterday’s lunch at a city restaurant; there had been no group conversations then, just a quick question from one, a brief answer from another.
But today, words flowed freely between them. The most notable exchange was about their shared love of reading, long dormant for Muna. It was clear that barriers were slowly crumbling, and a sense of closeness was seeping quietly between them.
Mr. Ahmed spoke of his first visit to Damascus during his university days, and the differences he found compared to his recent trip. His stories of pre-university studies held a special fascination for Numan, especially as he described walking the same paths that Numan took daily to school, as if destiny were repeating itself in the life of a different young man.
While Mr. Ahmed went to fetch a camera from his car to capture scenes—some for memory, some to send to Muna’s aunt in Beirut to show how swiftly Muna’s behavior and thoughts had shifted—he tried to remain unobtrusive, allowing Numan and Muna to speak freely.
Muna spoke of her love for reading, how it transported her to worlds beyond the confines of home, school, and study. She explained how reading had inspired her to write reflections when the world felt constricting, and also when life felt clear and open.
Numan admired her and encouraged her to continue writing, noting that she, like him, was a true friend of the page.
At the close of the day, Muna suggested a small game: each would share something unknown to the others.
Mr. Ahmed said,
” –I used to play the oud back in university… then I abandoned it after my first disappointment.”
Numan added,
” –No one knows that I secretly wrote poetry in the same notebook where I summarized the books I read.”
Muna gasped in surprise,
” –A poet? Really? And what did you write?”
He smiled and replied,
” –Things that should not be read by others… but they gave me comfort.”
Muna leaned closer, eyes sparkling:
” –Please, next time, bring just one notebook… and choose a piece to read to us.”
He nodded shyly, while Mr. Ahmed looked at them with a smile that held a quiet, profound satisfaction.
As the sun leaned toward the horizon, they walked along the riverbank, their laughter scattering with the breeze like gentle songs.
On the way back, Numan asked Mr. Ahmed,
” –Why did you care for me so much?”
The man answered, his voice a mix of tenderness and seriousness:
” –Honestly… because I saw something of myself in you… or perhaps because I saw in you the youth I wished someone had noticed.”
The confession alone was enough to dissolve the last barriers in Numan’s heart.
As the sun leaned toward the horizon, Muna suggested that each of them write a sentence to capture the day. Muna wrote,
” –A day that began gray, and ended in the color of jasmine.”
Numan wrote,
” –Today… I met the true Damascus, not its streets, but its faces.”
Mr. Ahmed simply wrote,
” –Your laughter… was the most beautiful part of this day.”
Unnoticed, time slipped quickly by. Numan then caught a voice from someone at a nearby table saying,
” –Midnight will come soon, shall we stay until morning?”
He stood quickly and went to the accounting section, settling the bill with the cash his teacher had given him. On returning, he smiled,
” –Isn’t it time to head back? The stop has lingered too long.”
Everyone rose, ready to leave.
When Mr. Ahmed dropped Numan at the bus stop, Muna was half-asleep in the back seat. But the bus Numan was to take had already left at midnight and would not return until early morning. Mr. Ahmed suggested,
” –I’ll take you home, there’s no other way.”
Numan hesitated, offering that Muna might need her bed for sleep, but she replied,
” –Don’t worry, I’m not used to sleeping early.”
He had no choice but to agree. The road was silent at first, then Muna broke the quiet:
” –Has your travel companion fallen asleep? Or has the chatter of today reached its peak, leaving no space for new words?”
Numan laughed and answered,
” –No, not asleep. I’m just savoring the quiet, holding onto the memories this day has left me.”
” –And I also enjoy the memories of this day,” she added softly.
” –Thank you for not judging me from the first meeting,” she said with gentle warmth.
He replied,
” –A first judgment doesn’t make a friendship… it’s patience and certainty that do.”
Words rushed from her lips,
” –Do you mean we’ve become friends?”
He smiled and said,
” –Friendship finds its way to hearts on its own.”
Upon arrival, Numan bid them farewell, saying,
” –Thank you… I will carry this day in my heart for a long time.”
Numan returned home, where his mother awaited him. He sat beside her, drowsiness tugging at his eyes, yet she insisted on knowing everything. The traces of his day were already written across his face, so she contented herself with praising him and offering words of caution.
He retreated to his bed. Though fatigue pressed upon him, his thoughts danced at the edges of sleep, murmuring within his heart,
” –The sun will rise again… surely.”
He finally surrendered to deep slumber, only to be awakened by his mother’s gentle voice before dawn,
” –Rise, my son, for prayer before the time of Fajr slips away.”
09
Chapter Nine – The Lens Captures Every Moment
In the morning, when Numan’s fingers brushed against the shop door latch, his hand felt light, as if afraid to awaken something fragile that dwelled inside.
He paused for a moment before pushing the door, his fingertips tense, as though waiting for a hidden signal.
There was something new in his eyes, something that had not been there the day before yesterday. Something unfinished, yet glimmering faintly, like a star preparing to pulse.
He opened the door slowly.
Stepping inside, he closed it behind him as if shutting the world away from his secret.
He stood in the middle of the shop, gazing at the fabrics stacked upon the shelves.
For a few seconds, it seemed to him that the colors were warmer, the scents deeper, the space breathing with him.
He ran his hand over the surface of the counter, as if touching still water.
His mind was silent, yet his heart whispered to a small dream that had not yet fully taken shape.
He smiled… and did not know why. A fleeting smile crossed his features, then vanished, like a trembling bubble that bursts and disappears.
The clock struck nine, and his teacher had not yet arrived. Numan shuffled through the fabrics, trying to seem busy, yet every movement felt softer than usual, as if he were living in half-awareness.
He lifted a piece of red cloth, then folded it back slowly, without reason.
He rose to straighten the shelves, then stopped mid-motion.
He looked at something distant, something that had unfolded yesterday, around this very hour, invisible to the eye.
A fleeting image shimmered behind his eyelids: a shadow of a face, an edge of a smile, a flutter of lashes in the light.
Around ten o’clock, the phone rang, bringing news that his teacher would not be able to come today.
A customer entered, requesting two pieces of dark fabric.
Numan attended to him with the order and calm he had long maintained with his patrons, yet his voice carried a quieter tone than usual, soft and muffled, as if speaking from beneath the water. When he handed the fabrics over, he bowed slightly more than etiquette demanded, as though apologizing to life for the absence of his heart in that moment.
The man left, glancing back once, and Numan lingered, staring at the empty doorway for a brief instant.
By noon, he sat behind the counter, resting his chin on his hand, eyes drifting through a narrow gap between two wooden panels in the wall. He thought of nothing but one precise thing: the feeling that precedes a dream, a warm mist enfolding the soul.
It was as if he were waiting for the clock to return to yesterday’s rhythm, yet he knew it would not.
He blinked slowly, brows relaxed, lips on the verge of a smile without deciding to.
As the clock neared three, he remembered he had left the shop door open an hour before. He hurried to close it and grabbed something to eat, but a piece of fabric, a pale pink with a hint of white, caught his eye from afar.
He approached it unconsciously, reached out, and let his fingertips graze it. For a brief, fleeting moment, he closed his eyes, as if the texture carried a story, the kind of story Muna would whisper in such moments.
Five o’clock announced the end of the afternoon break.
He went about his work, selling, distributing brief smiles, moving through the space as if half of him were here, and the other half in a secret place beyond the reach of anyone’s gaze.
Whenever the bustle subsided, stillness crept into his features.
And in each quiet moment, the contours of his vague dream sharpened:
The whispers of Muna, her footsteps, the color of her eyes—he still did not know what shade they held.
At eight o’clock, he stood by the door, closing the shop, hand on the lock, yet his eyes remained open to the evening. He felt his heart grow light, fragile, like a shirt hanging on a line stirred by a breeze.
And he did not know entirely: “Was this the beginning of love? Or merely the birth of longing?”
He finally shut the door, walking slowly, as if moving toward a destiny whose shape he could not see, yet felt approaching with steady steps between shadow and light.
10
Chapter Ten — A Conversation Reserved for Mother Alone
Numan returned home in time for the family meeting around the dinner table.
His steps were slower than usual, as if each one dragged behind it the tails of thoughts refusing to settle.
He opened the door quietly, slipping inside like a light fragrance carried on the evening breeze.
In the kitchen, his mother was preparing dinner, her eyes catching the newcomer through the wooden window. In her hands, bowls she carefully placed on the table around which her children hovered with patient hunger.
She lifted her head when she sensed him, and smiled a small, warm smile, like someone who knows without being told.
He smiled back, but remained standing for a moment, as if searching his chest for the right words.
Then he approached her, helping to finish preparing dinner for his siblings before gently taking her hand toward the living room.
He settled her on her usual wooden chair, and sat on the floor at her feet.
He rested his head against the side of her knees, as he had done as a small boy.
He let out a long sigh—not a sigh of fatigue, but one that emptied the weight of the day from his chest.
He whispered, voice choked with softness:
“Mother…”
She did not answer, but placed her hand over his hair with deep tenderness. In that touch, he understood she was saying: “I am here, for you.”
He closed his eyes, and began speaking to her, as if telling himself more than her:
“Today… was strange…”
Then he continued in a low voice:
” I don’t know… I felt as if the world had changed all of a sudden…
The shop is the shop, the fabrics are the fabrics, the people are the people… but I… I am not myself.”
He paused for a moment.
His mother continued to run her hand slowly over his head, as if combing his soul, not his hair. Then she said:
” Change, my son, is the law of life… But tell me, what saddens you? What frightens you?”
He went on in a dreamy tone:
” Everything around me has become… maybe sweeter.
This morning, when I opened the shop door, I felt as if I were entering another world.
As if something inside me had been waiting for me… it wasn’t clear… but it was there…”
A shy, almost childlike smile appeared on his lips, and he continued:
” Even the fabrics… I touched them as if I were touching a dream…”
His mother lifted her hand to his cheek, feeling the warmth of the words flowing from his heart.
He looked at her and found in her eyes that ancient gleam, the one he sees only when he succeeds, or grieves, or dreams.
He whispered, almost as if it were a secret:
” Mother, I feel… as if I am standing at the threshold of something great.
As if… a different life is waiting… or a dream about to come true… I don’t know…”
His mother laughed softly, a laugh full of tenderness, hope, and a hidden worry.
Then she whispered, her voice tinged with care:
” The dream, Numan… comes to you when your heart is ready to receive it… And today… your heart is open like a flower, but you must ask it… is your heart ready to receive it?”
He remained still, his head resting beside hers, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of her heart, as if it were music for a long, warm night. He drifted into a light sleep, unaware whether it was her gentle fingers combing his hair or her words that lulled him, yet her heart was silently praying for him, known only to God.
Her hand brushed his cheek like a breeze passing over a field at sunset.
She whispered, as if speaking to his heart and not his ear:
” If you feel something changing within you… it is because God is preparing you for what is more beautiful.”
He did not open his eyes. Instead, he pressed closer to her knees, as if clinging to the roots of reassurance before the winds of the unknown could sweep him away.
He stayed there, hearing the echo of her words in his chest, until it seemed even his own breaths began to trace their letters with every inhale and exhale.
Moments passed, weightless in time but heavy with the emotions suspended between them.
Then, with the quiet innocence of a childhood that had never left him, he lifted his head and pressed a long, silent kiss to her hand.
She smiled at him, a bigger smile this time, and said in a voice barely audible:
” Go, and do not fear. The dream does not knock twice.”
Numan rose as if from prayer, his eyes still shimmering with something caught between tears and light.
Without a word, he moved toward his room, flinging himself onto his bed and closing his eyes.
Sleep was not far from him that night, nor were dreams.
In his slumber, he saw himself standing at the threshold of a great door of light, tiny fragments of colored fabric drifting around him like butterflies dancing in a secret festival held for him alone.
With each step toward the door, he heard the echo of his mother whispering in his heart:
” Go, and do not fear…”
After the dawn prayer, Numan rested his head against his mother’s knees, yet this time, there was none of the lightness of childhood in the gesture.
She felt, as her hand passed through his hair, a sorrow in his strands she had never known before.
Her heart tightened, as a mother’s heart does when a small shadow of a cloud passes over her child’s face.
He whispered, his voice tinged with a faint hesitation:
” Mother… I want to tell you about something…”
She pressed her palm gently against his head, as if to say: “Speak… what is this thing that has been troubling you since yesterday evening?”
Numan closed his eyes for a moment before beginning:
” On Friday… I went with Muna and her father to a small restaurant on the banks of the Barada. It wasn’t planned by me; we just sat there, eating and talking…”
He paused, as if recalling the scene in every detail.
” It was the first time I saw her without the glow of imagination I had once seen upon her… I saw her as she truly is. Not just that distant, untouchable girl… but a real human being, with her own worries, her dreams painstakingly built, and her fear, which mirrors my own.”
His mother’s heart wavered between joy and fear; joy, because her son was living a genuine moment, and fear, that he might suffer a disappointment words could never heal.
Numan continued, his voice rising and falling as if walking on a suspended bridge between hope and despair:
” We could hear the gentle murmur of the water, and the sounds of people fading around us… as if the world had shrunk to nothing but the glance we shared. We talked about everything: the dreams we carry, the hobbies we discovered we both share, and the desire to carve a small place for ourselves within them, tiny, but ours alone.”
His mother said nothing, yet she felt a tear threaten the corner of her eye, hiding it as she pressed her hand more firmly on his head, trying to give him a certainty she no longer possessed herself.
He went on, as if recounting a dream, yet real in its delicacy:
” Muna was different from what I had imagined the first time. Not that perfect image her behavior created in me at our first meeting… she is more beautiful than that in truth, because she is real. She laid bare her fear before me as I lay bare mine to you now… and gave me the chance to be myself, without pretense or caution.”
His mother felt her hand tremble slightly over his hair.
She whispered, her voice barely escaping her lips:
” Be gentle with your heart, my son…”
He lifted his head and looked at her long, a gaze full of gratitude that needed no words, and said:
” I know, Mother… that’s why I come back to you. Only here… I find my heart when I lose it.”
He rested his head once more against her lap, while the distant murmur of the Barada whispered secrets only they could hear.
He sighed, a long, drawn-out exhale, then said:
” Muna… she is something new in my eyes… I know now she is flesh and blood, not some distant shadow descending from outside.”
His mother studied him with eyes heavy with quiet worry and asked:
” And does that sadden you? To see the truth with the eyes of your heart?”
He shook his head slowly, then lifted his eyes to hers:
” The truth is sometimes, Mother, heavy… We spoke for a long time, but her father revealed to me her burdens, her dream of studying medicine after her final exams. She left school, and trust in anyone is gone after the death of her mother and brother… he spoke of her fear of failure… of the long lonely path ahead without her mother.”
His mother’s expression softened, yet a shadow of caution settled deeper in her heart, and she asked gently:
” And do you fear that carrying her heart over your own, you might not be strong enough to walk?”
Numan gave a faint, wan smile and answered:
” I fear drowning before I learn to swim… and I fear losing her, or losing myself.”
He paused, then spoke as if lifting the veil off a long story:
” You know, Mother… Abu Hasan, the shopkeeper next door, told me a story a few days ago. He said the winds never precede a great storm unless they carry a momentous purpose.”
He spoke of a young man who clung to a girl he believed was an angel, only to discover, as he drew near, that she carried behind her burdens of pain and suffering he could not bear. He did not leave her, yet he lost himself trying to be both her earth and her sky.
His mother’s heart trembled, and she ran her hand slowly over his head, trying to soothe the herald of worry that had begun to sting.
She spoke to him, her voice carrying both tenderness and fear:
” My son… do you fear love? Or are you running from the truth?… But in either case, know this: a good heart, if it bears more than it can endure, will break.”
Numan looked at her long, as if drawing from her words the sustenance for a path whose shape had yet to appear, then said:
” That is why I laid out this morning for you… to be sure I do not walk this road alone.”
His mother smiled, a smile touched with tears, and said:
” I will not leave you alone, as long as my heart still beats.”
She drew him into her arms, and he rested his head against her chest, as if returning to the first solace, where no storm, no wind, no fear could reach him.
11
Chapter Eleven – A New Future
Numan went about his life with a quiet, measured rhythm, scarcely troubled by anything, now that he had lifted from his shoulders the weight of worrying over what might bring pain to him or his family, or cast shadows over his days.
Two days later, he approached his teacher, seeking permission:
” Teacher, I would like to review the university registration, or perhaps find an institute that suits my grades.”
The teacher nodded, a smile encouraging him, and Numan set off with his honorable companion, his steadfast study partner over the past years, toward the old building of Damascus University.
There, they stood before the Student Affairs office, waiting their turn with the patience of youth and the eagerness of budding hopes.
Both received the conditions for admission and registration, and Numan bid farewell to his companion at the university gate. He then headed back to Al-Hariqa, crossing the busy street with a lightness in his step, unaware of a voice calling from a passing car.
He arrived at the shop, breathless, to find Haj Abu Mahmoud welcoming him at the door with a friendly smile:
” You’ve returned, my son! Mr. Ahmad and his daughter came to bid us farewell—they leave tomorrow morning… I’ll leave you now to join the congregational prayer.”
The Haj departed quickly, leaving Numan standing, hesitant, fumbling slightly in the presence of Mr. Ahmad, who spoke warmly:
” We just wanted to say goodbye. We saw you crossing the street and called, but you didn’t turn. We tried to bring you along so you wouldn’t tire in this heat… We know you carry only goodwill for us, and we hope you remember us kindly, perhaps the days will bring us together again.”
Mr. Ahmad chose his words with care, pairing them with a gentle smile that calmed Numan’s heart. Numan stammered as he replied:
“Forgive me, sir! I did not hear you, and I swear I hold you only in the highest regard. Thank you for your kindness… and I pray that you reach your home and your family safely, and in happiness.”
And then they departed… Days passed, and the rhythm of routine returned.
On a scorching summer afternoon, just before the shops would close for the midday break, a sleek car stopped briefly at the shop’s door. The congestion of traffic behind it was severe, so Mr. Ahmad did not step out. Instead, he scanned the street with his eyes for Numan. When he could not spot him, he called over a porter he had seen before and handed him a small note, along with a generous tip, asking him to deliver it to Numan.
“Forgive me! I could not find a nearby spot to park. You will find me waiting shortly at the entrance of Al-Hariqa. Regards, M. Ahmad.”
The message reached Numan, who read it quickly and then headed to the shop’s upper floor, where his teacher was preparing for lunch. He said:
“Teacher, it’s two o’clock now. I’ll lock the shop from outside and be gone for a short while. I have an urgent matter.”
His teacher responded with understanding. Numan bid him farewell and left, finding Mr. Ahmad waiting.
In the car, a brief conversation passed between them before they set off toward a nearby restaurant. Amid bites of their quick meal, Mr. Ahmad turned to Numan with a new request:
“Could you help me find a furnished apartment for rent here in Damascus? I’ll be staying for a while… I’ve grown weary of hotel rooms.”
Mr. Ahmad offered no explanation, content with a mysterious glance.
Numan approached the restaurant owner’s desk and politely asked him to make a call. The owner contacted an acquaintance who referred them to a relative with a real estate office.
After lunch, they went together to the office, where the agent greeted them with evident warmth. He led them to an apartment near the Al-Hariqa district, as Mr. Ahmad had requested. Mr. Ahmad admired its location and size, and they agreed to return in the evening to finalize the lease with the owner.
Numan returned to his shop, while Mr. Ahmad remained, conversing with the real estate agent.
That evening, Mr. Ahmad returned to the shop and explained to Hajj Abu Mahmoud what he required:
“Tonight I leave for Beirut, and I need someone to collect the contract and pay six months’ rent in advance.”
In Hajj Abu Mahmoud’s presence, Mr. Ahmad handed Numan a large sum of money, then departed for Lebanon.
At closing time, Hajj Abu Mahmoud accompanied his assistant to the real estate office, where they completed the task with diligence and integrity. Afterwards, they continued to the bus station reassured.
The following day, Mr. Ahmad came to collect his copy of the lease and the apartment keys, and Numan handed them over faithfully, amidst warm words of gratitude.
That same afternoon, Mr. Ahmad returned with a gracious invitation:
“I would be honored to have you join me for a light dinner in my new apartment.”
Hajj Abu Mahmoud apologized for his prior commitments, and Numan almost did the same—had it not been for Mr. Ahmad’s gentle insistence and kindness.
At last, both agreed, and they accompanied him after closing.
Mr. Ahmad welcomed them warmly, presenting each with a small gift he had brought from Beirut, alongside fresh cake and chilled orange juice.
The visit was brief but heartfelt; they exchanged light, easy conversations. As they prepared to leave, Mr. Ahmad insisted on driving them himself.
On the road, a pleasant conversation unfolded with Hajj Abu Mahmoud, most of it revolving around Numan, his trustworthiness, and the goodness of his spirit.
When they reached Hajj Abu Mahmoud’s home, Mr. Ahmad stepped out to bid him a warm farewell, then insisted on taking Numan all the way to his door.
There, he bade him goodbye with a wide smile, returning home content, carrying in his heart a pure gratitude for that good-hearted young man.
The next morning, Numan approached his teacher, requesting permission to leave briefly. He had to visit the university to submit his registration papers, having resolved to apply to the College of Fine Arts, eager to pursue a specialization in interior design for the next four years.
His teacher blessed the decision and granted him permission with genuine delight.
Numan strode purposefully toward the college building, handed in his documents, and returned with an appointment for a personal interview, followed by written, artistic, and practical exams—an evaluation that would shape the course of his academic destiny. The appointment was set for a month from now.
He hurried back to the shop, finding his teacher conversing with a customer at the door, as if waiting impatiently for Numan’s return to head to the mosque for prayer. Meanwhile, Mr. Ahmad was waiting inside.
Hajj Abu Mahmoud met him at the door and whispered a brief message from Mr. Ahmad:
“Mr. Ahmad is inside, waiting for you. He wishes for you to accompany him after closing. What do you say?”
Numan paused for a moment, and as his teacher exited the shop, he entered and moved toward where the man sat, greeting him gently before speaking:
“I will come to meet you in your apartment after closing… I have some tasks to complete first, which may take longer than expected, perhaps even beyond closing time. I beg your pardon.”
Mr. Ahmad smiled and said,
“I will wait for you in front of the shop then, but please! Do not keep me waiting.”
He bid him farewell and departed with steady steps.
Numan rushed to finish his errands, the time stretching longer than he had anticipated. Though he had informed Mr. Ahmad of his delay in advance, the man waited patiently outside the shop, standing firm until the doors closed, and remained there until Numan finally emerged.
About an hour later, Numan stepped out, closing the shop behind him, and joined Mr. Ahmed, who had already started his car, heading toward the real estate office.
Mr. Ahmed entered the office, while Numan lingered at the doorway, smoking a cigarette, his features clouded with uncertainty, silent.
Inside, Mr. Ahmed greeted the office owner calmly and said, “I apologize in advance!”
He spoke with a tone that tried to mask a flicker of embarrassment, then added, “The apartment I rented did not satisfy my daughter… she prefers something larger, in a comparatively finer neighborhood.”
The office owner picked up the phone and made a few swift calls, while Mr. Ahmed moved toward where Numan stood and asked gently, with a hint of reproach, “Why didn’t you come in with me?”
Numan replied evenly, keeping a subtle distance, “And how was I to know you needed me? You never told me anything, and frankly, I don’t even understand why I’m here with you.”
Meanwhile, the office owner finished his calls and gestured Mr. Ahmed to come closer. “Furnished apartments in the finer areas are either very expensive or simply unavailable at the moment,” he explained.
Mr. Ahmed nodded in understanding. “I have no objection to the rent if I can find something suitable for my daughter, but… when might I find what I’m looking for? Or… do you know someone who could help?”
Then he turned to Numan, calling him in a tone closer to a plea than a command. Numan stepped forward, and he asked, “How long are you thinking of renting the apartment for?”
Mr. Ahmed replied, “No fixed period… I am willing to pay any amount, as long as the apartment pleases my daughter.”
Numan glanced at the office owner and inquired whether he had any apartments matching Mr. Ahmed’s specifications for sale. The man answered, “Everything the gentleman is asking for is available… if he wants to buy. There are three new apartments in a single building, in a very upscale location, close to Mazza, and finishing work was completed recently…”
He added, “The ownership papers are ready, but they are offered for sale only, not for rent.”
Mr. Ahmed asked for an approximate price. The man replied, “No more than fifteen thousand Syrian pounds per square meter.”
Mr. Ahmed then requested to set a time to view the apartments. After a few short phone calls, it was decided the appointment would be right after Friday prayers, essentially the very next day.
He noted down the shop’s number where Numan worked and gave it to the office owner, just in case of any unforeseen circumstance.
On the way back, Numan asked humbly, “Could we stop by the Bahsa for a moment? I want to buy some food.”
Mr. Ahmed pulled up near the most famous falafel shop, gestured for him, and Numan got out, returning quickly with three large wraps and three bottles of ayran.
Mr. Ahmad handed Numan two parcels and a pair of bottles, keeping the rest for himself. With a gentle smile he said:
“Here’s our lunch for today… and I hope Muna will taste it as well.”
He then bid him farewell with kindness, asking him to carry his greetings and regards to Muna.
It was the first time he mentioned her name without the formality of “Miss,” and the first time he chose something with his own hand for her—though he had not yet met her since her return from Lebanon.
Numan found himself wondering:
“Will she accept this simple food I picked out for her? And will I hear, through her father, even the smallest word of thanks?”
He went back to his work and, as always, slipped into the pages of a book he carried with him everywhere.
His teacher noticed and asked:
“What are you reading this time?”
Numan answered quietly:
“It’s a world novel, translated into Arabic.”
“And what is it about?”
“It tells the story of a man’s struggle with himself. The setting is the Second World War, in a small European village. The characters are ordinary people, yet the author has infused their lives with immense depth.”
The teacher smiled, then asked:
“And why do you choose foreign novels instead of reading from our own literature?”
Numan replied with calm confidence:
“I’ve read many works in Arabic, and I could summarize them for you, if you like, whenever we have a free moment.”
The teacher pressed on:
“And do you read anything besides novels?”
“I tried some scientific books,” Numan admitted, “but I found them a bit difficult… I prefer what suits my own capacity for understanding.”
The teacher, charmed by his eagerness and curiosity, teased him:
“I’m almost embarrassed to say it—you might be more cultured than I am!”
Then, as if to explain himself, he added:
“Each day I recite a portion of the Holy Qur’an, especially since Mr. Ahmad gave me a beautiful copy with such clear script that I no longer need those troublesome spectacles of mine.”
And since the subject of gifts had arisen, the teacher asked:
“And you—what gift did you receive from Mr. Ahmad?”
Numan gave a faint smile and said:
“I haven’t opened it yet… I left it in the drawer of my cabinet. Perhaps one day I might even have to return it to him.”
12
Chapter Twelve – A Stranger Asking for Numan
On Friday morning, Numan was dressing, preparing to leave after asking his mother’s permission, when one of his cousins came running toward him, breathless.
“There’s a man at the door asking for you!”
Numan hurried to the entrance, only to find his uncle closing the door behind him with an air of cold finality.
“There’s no one here,” his uncle said flatly.
“But your son told me someone was waiting for me!” Numan protested.
“The man is gone. We don’t know who he was.”
Anger flared inside Numan, but he held himself in check, replying with measured courtesy:
“But he was asking for me. He had come to take me with him, as I promised I would be ready at this very hour. Please, Uncle—why didn’t you ask me first before acting this way?”
At that moment, his uncle’s face hardened, his voice rising sharp and tense:
“Watch yourself, Numan, and watch your conduct! You belong to a respectable household. We are a family known for honor and decency. Strangers like that have no place stepping into our homes! Tell me—do your grandfather or your parents know anything about this man? And what on earth ties you to such people? Why should we allow him to take you anywhere? Must we now endure men like that crossing our threshold because of you? Do you realize what the neighbors will say? How our reputation will be dragged into whispers that, once they begin, can never be silenced? Do you know where such recklessness will lead us? … To ruin, Numan! To absolute ruin!”
Numan fell silent, recognizing that his uncle’s anger had broken beyond reason.
As voices rose and the air grew charged, the grandfather appeared, his eyes sharp and troubled, scanning the scene with a gravity that cut through the noise.
The grandfather asked in a calm, steady tone:
“What is it, my boy? What raised your voice so high?”
The uncle was quick to complain:
“A stranger—about my age, perhaps even older—dressed in fine clothes, driving a luxury car. His accent was nothing like ours! And with him was a young woman, dressed in a way that—God forgive me—was hardly proper. He came asking for Numan, claiming he had an important appointment with him! Tell me, Father, would you truly allow your grandson to go off with such a man?”
The grandfather turned to Numan, his eyes searching for the truth.
Numan replied with quiet sadness:
“The man has already gone, Grandfather. There’s no use in speaking of it now…”
But the old man would not let it rest. He led his grandson into his room, its walls adorned with mosaic and threads of silver. Pouring him a glass of tea, he spoke gently:
“Tell me everything, my boy. You have nothing to fear.”
As they sat together, Numan’s mother appeared at the doorway, hesitant, wishing to take her son away.
Instead, the grandfather invited them both to sit and share the tea.
But the mother refused with sorrow in her voice, her tone soft yet unyielding:
“Please, Uncle! I don’t want to stir up another conflict with your son. I’ve endured much for the sake of my husband, and out of respect for you. But when it comes to my child, I will not remain silent. If your son keeps interfering in our lives, I will leave this house with my family, even if I must rent a single small room. And let your son—and everyone—know this: we seek nothing of what belongs to his father!”
The grandfather smiled gently and said:
“All right then, let’s drink our tea together. I’ll hear everything from Numan calmly.”
So they all sat down, and Numan began to recount the whole matter to his grandfather. No sooner had he finished than the sharp blast of a car horn echoed from outside.
With tears brimming in his eyes, Numan whispered:
“There he is, Grandfather… you can ask him yourself!”
The old man rose, instructing everyone else to remain in the room, and went out to receive the visitor. A moment later he returned with Mr. Ahmad, who cast a quick, attentive glance around the room and its furnishings. After a brief exchange, the grandfather addressed his grandson:
“Come, my boy. This man is our guest… and you will accompany him, offering whatever help you can.”
With a steady spirit, Numan asked permission of his mother and grandfather, then stepped out with Mr. Ahmad toward the city of Damascus.
There, they first met with the owner of a real estate office, then made their way to a mosque in the Mezzeh district. After performing the Friday prayer, they gathered at the mosque’s entrance, where the building’s owner was waiting.
Two cars set off behind his, until they reached a broad street lined with trees. Before them stood a newly constructed building surrounded by a wide, green garden.
The owner unlocked the main door and asked:
“Which floor would you like to see first? The ground, the first, or the second?”
Mr. Ahmad replied with calm professionalism:
“We’d like to look at all the options, if possible.”
But the owner quickly clarified:
“All the apartments are for sale only—not for rent. We’ve just finished them, and I intend to sell in order to fund a new project.”
Mr. Ahmad stepped closer and said:
“I’m a structural engineer, and there may well be work between us in the future—once I’ve purchased one of these apartments.”
They began with the ground floor, and the owner handed over the keys so they could view the rest under the supervision of the real estate agent, apologizing that he had to step away for a short while.
Numan leaned toward Mr. Ahmad, caution flickering in his voice:
“Don’t you think Muna should be here to help choose the apartment? She might see things differently…”
Mr. Ahmad agreed, and asked the owner’s leave to call his daughter. The man walked him to a nearby phone booth, from which he made a brief call before returning with an apology:
“Give me just half an hour. I’ll be back with my daughter.”
Numan sat at the edge of the entrance beside the agent, both waiting as the sun slid lower in the sky, its light sifting through the trees and spilling across the pavement like a quiet invitation to patience before the scene was complete.
At last, after nearly half an hour, Mr. Ahmad returned with his daughter, Muna, and together they stepped inside the ground-floor apartment with the agent. Numan remained where he was until Mr. Ahmad, visible through the window that overlooked the entrance, gestured for him to join them.
Reluctantly, Numan entered, and found himself standing in a spacious apartment—nearly twenty-seven hundred square feet—with rooms arranged elegantly along its perimeter, each one with its own private bath, and a wide side kitchen.
At the heart of the apartment rose a refined living room, centered around a built-in fireplace, opening onto a broad balcony that overlooked a lush green garden.
Natural light streamed in through the windows, flooding the place with a brightness both pure and joyful.
The next morning, Numan was still awestruck. He had never imagined that anyone could live in such a place—rooms so vast, ornamentation so refined, and conveniences designed to satisfy both the simplest needs and the most extravagant desires. He struggled to hide his amazement, choosing silence when Mr. Ahmad asked for his opinion, watching instead, listening to the exchange between father and daughter.
Muna did not disguise her displeasure. At times she flared in open protest, at others she muttered indistinct words under her breath—each time the real estate agent stepped in with a suggestion or remark.
Before long, Mr. Ahmad asked the agent to continue the tour, and they moved together through the first-floor apartment, then another on the second floor.
Two hours passed in this manner, until the property owner rejoined them to ask if they had reached a decision. Mr. Ahmad replied that they needed more time, though he leaned toward choosing the ground-floor flat. The agent requested that they contact him once they were ready to proceed with final negotiations.
But he quickly excused himself from closing the deal that day, noting other commitments and the weariness of a long afternoon. It was agreed they would meet the following day at two-thirty in the afternoon, at the real estate office, bringing along all necessary documents.
At precisely two o’clock the next day, Mr. Ahmad was waiting for Numan in his car. As soon as the young man climbed in, they set off together toward the office.
They were welcomed warmly by the agent, who ordered tea to be served. Seated behind his polished desk—flanked by a massive steel safe and a large television screen that played a silent documentary—he carried an air of practiced formality. The tea had scarcely been poured when the property owner entered, carrying an envelope that held all the required documents.
The discussion began as a triangle, steered by the real estate agent around the price of the apartment and his commission. The owner asked for five million, while Mr. Ahmad countered with three and a half.
Numan remained silent, his eyes moving between the faces at the table, absorbing every gesture and pause. The argument dragged on—neither the seller lowering his demand, nor the buyer raising his offer.
At last, Mr. Ahmad turned to Numan. “What do you think?”
Numan suggested a compromise, a middle ground between the two figures. Mr. Ahmad smiled, nodding his assent, though the number was higher than he had hoped.
The owner, after a brief phone call for consultation, agreed—on the condition that the entire amount be paid at the time of registration. Mr. Ahmad accepted, proposing instead that a quarter of the sum, along with the office commission, be paid immediately in exchange for the keys.
It seemed the matter was heading toward a smooth conclusion—until the agent interjected, reminding them that, according to his identification, Mr. Ahmad was not permitted to own property in Syria.
Mr. Ahmad then turned to Numan. “It will be registered in your name,” he said.
Numan hesitated, but Mr. Ahmad reassured him with a calm smile, handing over his ID card as if to anchor his trust.
The agent began drafting the contract, adding clauses that included a penalty of up to one million Syrian pounds in case of breach.
Mr. Ahmad excused himself, stepped out to the car, and returned carrying a black briefcase. Placing it firmly on the table, he unlatched it and drew out a thick stack of bills.
“Here,” he declared, “one million two hundred seventy-five thousand Syrian pounds: one million sixty-two thousand five hundred as the first payment, and the rest for the office commission.”
Each party received their share, and everyone signed the contract: the seller, the buyer, and Numan and the agent as witnesses. Copies were exchanged, and hands were shaken warmly. Mr. Ahmad took the keys, while Numan stood, blinking in astonishment.
“Was this a dream or reality?” he whispered to himself.
Two days after the signing, Numan’s phone rang. It was the real estate agent, requesting his immediate presence with Mr. Ahmad.
Numan asked his teacher, Haj Abu Mahmoud, for a two-hour leave, as it was nearly noon. The teacher agreed, cautioning him not to be late for the evening opening of the store.
Numan went to Mr. Ahmad’s house and explained that the agent had called multiple times, but Mr. Ahmad’s line was busy, so the agent had finally contacted the store and insisted on their immediate presence.
Together, they drove to the office. Upon arrival, the apartment owner was waiting. After polite greetings, everyone sat down, and the agent began relaying the seller’s request: the contract was to be terminated by mutual consent, or Mr. Ahmad was to renounce the agreement signed two days earlier, without any penalties.
Mr. Ahmad, taken aback, asked for clarification. “Why this sudden change?” he pressed, but the owner refused to explain.
A tense dialogue unfolded for over an hour, with Mr. Ahmad and the agent on one side, and the seller and the agent on the other. Finally, Numan requested a two-hour delay in deciding, suggesting that Mr. Ahmad return home and consult his daughter Muna.
“Let her weigh in,” Numan said. “Should we give in, or hold firm on the contract?”
Indeed, Mr. Ahmad returned home with Numan and met his daughter Muna, telling her everything that had happened, adding that Numan had requested a delay so that she could have the final word.
Muna looked at Numan, seated in the corner of the room, absorbed in the projector connected to the television. She knew he would not look at her, nor speak to her as usual, so she quietly interrupted her father. Yet something in his words nearly made her shoot him a sharp glance from her fiery eyes, and words hovered on the edge of her lips, ready to escape.
Still, she approached Numan slowly, hesitating for a heartbeat, then leaned close so her face was near his ear, and whispered softly:
” This is the second time you’ve made me feel indebted to you, as if I must thank you.”
Numan remained lost in his thoughts, as if no one had spoken.
Muna returned to her father and told him she would not agree to relinquish the apartment that had so captivated her, the one she had spent the past two days imagining, planning how she would decorate and furnish it. She explained that she had repeated long conversations with her aunts in Beirut, and one of them had even asked her to discuss with her father a similar apartment, ready for occupancy, so she could spend future vacations there with her husband and young daughter.
Mr. Ahmad smiled, delighted, and asked Muna to confirm her aunt’s request. She nodded. “Yes, Father, she told me just yesterday evening during our call.”
Without hesitation, he requested an international call. Moments later, the phone rang. Mr. Ahmad spoke with the husband of his daughter’s aunt, asking if he truly wished to purchase an apartment in Damascus. The man confirmed, explaining that the conversation had taken place the previous evening with his wife, who expressed her desire to own a place near her niece Muna, having noticed a great change in her relationship with them. She wanted to remain close, hoping Muna would return to her former warmth toward them.
Mr. Ahmad informed the person on the line that there were two apartments ready for sale on the first and second floors of the building where he had reserved his new unit. He asked him to come to Damascus the following morning for an inspection, with a transfer of an amount equivalent to five million Syrian pounds, then ended the call.
Mr. Ahmad asked Numan to return quickly to the real estate office, taking with him the bag of cash that had been kept under Muna’s bed.
But Numan excused himself and left for his work.
Alone, Mr. Ahmad went to the real estate office, where he found the two men waiting: the building owner and the office manager.
He sat before the apartment owner and asked,
“How much do you want for the apartment on the first floor?”
The man answered candidly,
“I’ll be straightforward with you. I want to sell the entire building at once, and I’m ready to transfer ownership within a week.”
Mr. Ahmad nodded,
“I am trying with some relatives to buy the whole building, but I am short on liquidity. So far, I have only enough for two apartments.” He pulled the contract from his inner pocket and showed it to the owner, adding,
“This is the contract. I will place it in your hands when Mr. Numan is present. It is his right, and our duty, that he witnesses the transfer of the contract as he did its signing. I will only recover the amount you received two days ago. I will not request any penalty, and I will be grateful to you.”
The building owner said,
“There’s something I want to tell you: I appreciate your honesty and the way you conduct yourself, but I want to sell the entire building quickly, because I’m about to start another construction project. If you are willing to buy it, transfer ownership within a week, and pay the full amount immediately, I have no objection to selling it to you in this very session.”
Mr. Ahmad made a phone call, hung up the receiver, and sat facing the owner. He asked,
“How much do you want for the building?”
A long dialogue ensued, stretching hours, yet the two sides could not agree on a suitable price.
Mr. Ahmad requested to continue the discussion the following day, at two-thirty in the afternoon.
He returned home that evening, feeling defeated, concealing his fear of telling his daughter what had transpired. When Muna, with a hint of apprehension, asked him, he hesitated, then said,
“Numan left me at the building’s entrance and returned to his work. He didn’t come with me to the real estate office. Perhaps I couldn’t pursue buying the apartment because I was alone, I didn’t know anyone here, and I didn’t know what to do! Perhaps I’ll never be able to complete this deal if Numan isn’t with me.”
Muna looked at him firmly and asked,
“And why? Who’s bullying you, that he alone occupies your mind wherever you go?”
Mr. Ahmad smiled gently and replied,
“He must be present. With him, everything becomes easier than I planned, simpler than I imagined complicated. My dear daughter, try to see him as I see him, hear him as I hear him. Watch how things proceed when he is there, and then compare it to how they are in his absence.”
“He is a calm young man, though a volcano rages within him. I always find him smiling, even through sufferings that mountains themselves could not endure.”
He continued, flowing with his words:
“And above all, he is cultured, despite his youth. Haven’t you noticed how long you’ve been searching for that piece of fabric from your mother’s clothes? How many times you looked for it in Lebanon and Damascus, and found nothing like it except through him? And we couldn’t buy it except with his help. Didn’t you admire his manner and his way of speaking the day we had lunch together by the Barada River? What changed between you two, after you had been in initial harmony?”
Muna raised an eyebrow slightly and said,
“But isn’t he foolish?! Didn’t he ignore me and avoid speaking to me? I even asked him to bring the notebook of poems he claimed to write, and he ignored my request! And how cold he has been in our last meetings! I almost think he’s lying in every claim he makes.”
Ahmed laughed quietly and said,
“True, but we never asked him why he did that. It’s better to look at things from a distance, to see the truths objectively, and not to judge what we have not experienced. Shall I tell you a secret? I tried to make amends for what we caused him. I asked his teacher to give him some money without him knowing it came from me. And though his teacher told him he had earned it thanks to me, he refused to take it. And you saw how he didn’t even accept that trivial sum I offered at the end of the day.”
He added,
“And I want to tell you something else, something that happened while we were together, before we returned to Beirut. When we agreed not to go back to Damascus again, I asked him to give me rides in the mornings and evenings so I could speak with him in private conversations, to bring him into our lives and to enter his. But he was cautious, and he declined politely, without causing any inconvenience. He is the type who distances himself as much as possible from any new situation that might trap him later.
I remember the two days we stayed at the hotel without contacting him, even though he knew we were returning to Beirut. Then I went to him, asking for help in finding an apartment for rent. He didn’t hesitate for a moment; he accompanied me to the real estate office, and he chose this apartment for us so we could remain close to him. So, at the very least, he holds no resentment toward any of us, nor does he bear anything against us. He wants us near him, and he is always ready to help.
I even asked the office owner to give him a commission for bringing seasonal tenants. He did not refuse; he accepted it, and before nightfall, he returned the money, explaining that it was a discount on paying the full amount upfront—a detail the office owner hadn’t mentioned to me. Yes, my daughter, he is a committed young man, upright, honest, and sincere. Can’t you see how radiant he is, how handsome? … But I fear that everything I do without him will be wasted. We will lose the apartment we dreamed of in Damascus. Our stay in Syria now depends on Numan being with us, by our side. My daughter, believe me, if you cannot bear his presence with us, it is better that we return to Beirut.”
Muna shook her head and said firmly,
“No, father, I do not want to return to Beirut. And please do not ask me why, for you know the reason. But I see that you place Mr. Numan in a position that makes me feel he stands between us, as if he were your favorite son.”
Mr. Ahmed sighed gently and said with tenderness,
“Do not forget, my daughter, that you are my daughter, and that our being here in Damascus has always been—and still is—because of your wish.”
He turned to her again and continued,
“As for the place you say I have given him in my life, I tell you, you have begun to feel jealous. I do not distinguish him from you, not at all, nor do I prefer him over anyone, whoever they may be. You know this. After all, you are my only daughter.”
She replied,
“I understand everything you said, father! And you are right! But I still cannot accept him as he is. I followed your instructions when you invited him to the restaurant, and that lunch by the Barada River—I saw how much I complimented him, all of it for you!”
Her father asked,
“Do you want us to hear his thoughts? To see how he thinks, and how he will react? We are in a delicate moral and financial position now, and I fear we may lose the apartment deal. Do you agree?”
Muna said,
“Yes! But what is your plan?”
He smiled and answered,
“I will explain … we will go to him together …”
The next afternoon, Hajj Abu Mahmoud informed him that he was stepping out to take care of something and would not be back soon. After he left the shop, Numan continued his work inside. Muna entered hesitantly at first, then slowly approached him, signaling with her hand to catch his attention. She came closer and spoke in a low, calm voice:
“I apologize … and I hope you will accept my invitation to have a cup of coffee with me, wherever you choose.”
Numan’s tongue froze; he did not know what to say. In all their previous encounters, she had never spoken to him this way.
But now, she was behaving in a manner he had not expected. He gathered himself and replied sharply,
” I apologize, miss, but I have no time today or tomorrow. I cannot close the shop because my teacher has work to attend to today, and he left a while ago and will not return!”
He then resumed his tasks in the shop. Muna followed his steps slowly, speaking in a low voice, in a manner entirely new to him.
Numan remained silent, absorbed in preparing goods and invoices. After a few minutes, her father entered and greeted them. Muna quietly signaled to him,
” Father, I apologized as you asked me to, to Mr. Numan, and I invited him to speak with me over a cup of coffee anywhere he chooses, even though I extended the invitation. But he refused, saying he has no time.”
Mr. Ahmad turned to Numan and said,
” How about you prepare two cups of coffee while I go fetch something and return? We won’t take much of your time.”
Mr. Ahmad left the shop and went to his car parked nearby, sitting behind the wheel and searching for something inside.
Numan entered the side room to prepare the two cups of coffee. Muna followed him quietly, step by step, under the pretense of helping him find the cups. When she cornered him in a narrow space, she leaned closer, her body near his, and whispered softly into his ear,
” I hand over the sweet to you! The small man, great in conduct and morals, steadfast in values, who took possession of my being against my will, whom I could not expel from myself, whose abilities I could not prevent from overwhelming me, and yet I have not fully comprehended what has befallen me because of him!”
Numan’s face burned with embarrassment, lost and unsure of how to act. He left everything in its place and hurried out. Muna stood before him, unwavering, her gaze fixed, and said,
” I am not ashamed of what I said, or what I did, and I will not take it back.”
She paused for a moment, then added,
” I do not want to impose anything on you. I only wanted you to know! Today my father decided that we will return permanently to Beirut, and I cannot travel to my country anymore. You have made my heart beat for you. I know what is in your mind, I understand it, and I know that speaking on this matter is new to you, just as it is new to me. But I overcame all obstacles through long conversations with my father, who made me care for you even more by speaking about you through those who know you well. I witnessed it all with my eyes, and I felt it in my heart. Yes, Mr. Numan, I want nothing from you, nor do I ask you to return a feeling that is not true. Let us not part with something unspoken between us, even a single word that one might wish to say before time runs out, leaving us completely distant from each other.”
At that moment, Mr. Ahmad entered, smiling,
” I have taken care of everything. Have you prepared the coffee?”
Muna responded with a light sarcasm,
” It seems some people spare us not only a cup of coffee, but also a truthful word to delight us!”
Numan stood between them, his silence heavy in the room. Mr. Ahmad extended his hand to Numan and gave him a card, saying,
” This is our address in Beirut. We look forward to your visit. Farewell.”
Numan asked Mr. Ahmad,
” Have you settled the apartment and the contract before the trip?”
Mr. Ahmad looked at his daughter and said,
” How could we forget that!”
He pulled the contract from his pocket and asked Numan for a pen, which Numan handed him—one of the pens from his teacher’s desk. Mr. Ahmad smiled and said,
” I will waive this contract for you. I hope you will follow up with the office and the seller. You can claim the penalty clause with the first payment and the agent’s commission, or relinquish the contract with no obligations, or sell the apartment at whatever price you see fit, or even retain your right to own it and pay the balance according to the contract.”
Numan looked at Mr. Ahmad and asked,
” When is the next meeting to follow up on the builder’s request, the one you couldn’t finalize yesterday?”
Mr. Ahmad replied,
” Surely you’ve contacted the office or the seller; one of them must have updated you on what happened.”
Numan answered steadily,
” I haven’t contacted anyone. But you are telling me now that no agreement was reached, only a postponement; that the contract is still with you; that you could not buy Muna’s aunt’s apartment and her husband’s, because the husband did not attend today, as you had agreed; and he did not come because of your request. And that you both decided to return to Beirut suddenly, because something is to happen after two in the afternoon. Don’t worry about it. I wish you a smooth journey. I will settle the contract soon and send you everything you have paid, or at least the best profit I can secure for you.”
Mr. Ahmad signed his relinquishment of the contract and handed it to Numan, announcing that the meeting would take place at two thirty. Numan turned to Muna, who was gazing at him with a quiet wonder, and asked:
“Are you truly attached to the apartment, or will you really travel and abandon your plans?”
Muna faltered, her voice almost failing her… Should she tell him that what had once been mere performance had, in part, become real, making her heart feel as if it might leap from her chest? Yet she did not know how to put it into words. She asked her father to cancel the idea of the journey, affirming her attachment to the apartment and to the plans that had now transformed into a dream awaiting its fulfillment.
At the appointed hour, Mr. Ahmad and Numan arrived at the real estate office. Mr. Ahmad sat alone on the couch, observing closely, while Numan successfully reached an agreement with the property owner to transfer ownership within two days, ensuring full payment and finding buyers for the two remaining apartments in the meantime.
Everyone left the meeting satisfied. Numan returned to his work accompanied by Mr. Ahmad, who kept asking for clarifications along the way—but received none—until Numan called one of the trusted fabric merchants he had dealt with previously, inviting him to come over in the evening, just before closing time.
When the merchant arrived, Numan asked him to accompany Mr. Ahmad to his house while he closed the shop and joined them shortly after.
At Mr. Ahmad’s house, Numan inquired whether he had purchased the apartment he had mentioned some time ago. Mr. Ahmad replied negatively. Numan then said:
“There is one like it, even better, waiting for your signature. But it could find a buyer within a single day if the contract isn’t signed quickly.”
When the merchant showed interest in the apartment, he insisted on seeing it with his own eyes.
Numan reached for the phone, called the office, and asked the agent to arrange a visit with the seller early the next morning. He also urged him to inform Mr. Ahmad, so that he could accompany the prospective buyer on the long-anticipated visit.
On the appointed morning, Mr. Ahmad arrived early, as was his habit, and escorted the merchant to the office, assuring him along the way:
“Everything is ready. We will finalize the matter today, just as it should be.”
The merchant gave a silent nod, his eyes carrying a glimmer of quiet satisfaction.
It was agreed that the sale would take place at half past two in the afternoon. The gathering was charged with anticipation, the air dense with expectation. Contracts were signed, ownership transferred, and obligations settled with the precision that had been carefully negotiated.
By the end of the day, Numan stood a few steps away from the office, watching as the participants exited one by one, exchanging words of thanks and courtesy.
He drew in a deep breath, as though reclaiming the air he had spent over the past days, and whispered to himself:
“I have kept my promise.”
That day marked the close of a long endeavor, and the beginning of a new entry in the quiet ledger of trust that Numan was writing—wordlessly, yet with distinction that required no proclamation.
On a warm evening in the early days of winter, when life had finally settled into the new building, when the house had begun to breathe with furniture and the faint pulse of memory, Muna leaned close to her father and whispered in his ear:
“Dad… will you make a little phone call? Call Numan, and invite him to dinner with us tonight.”
Mr. Ahmad smiled warmly, offering no comment, as if he had anticipated the request long before it was spoken. He lifted the receiver and placed the call.
Less than an hour later, Numan was at the door. It opened wide, and there stood Mr. Ahmad himself, greeting him with a firm handshake and leading him toward the room where the table was set. Muna had arranged it with a care that suggested she was preparing for something far more than a meal.
She entered shortly after. A scarf flowed gracefully over her hair, and her attire concealed her figure completely, leaving only her face to light the space around her. She moved with a quiet elegance, her steps light, her smile carrying both serenity and a trace of wonder.
“Peace be upon you… Welcome, Numan!” she said gently.
He returned the greeting in a subdued tone, but she gave him no chance to add more. She continued at once, as though releasing words she had been keeping hidden for days:
“I spoke openly with my father about you… and the truth? I felt jealous. Yes, jealous—because I saw how deeply he cares for you, and it made me feel as though I were competing with you for his heart. So I chose these clothes, hoping to draw closer to what his spirit loves, and to start from today on equal ground. We both love him, without jealousy, without rivalry. Tell me—what do you think? Does this attire suit me?”
For a few moments, Numan simply looked at her, her words scattering before him like raindrops sliding down the glass of a midnight window. Then, in a voice quiet yet searching, he asked:
“Was it truly me you were speaking of? Or was your meaning meant for someone else?”
She laughed softly and said:
“Yes, you! Did you really think I would speak to my father in that tone about anyone else?”
“No… I didn’t expect that. But I would never compete with you for your father’s love, nor should I. That’s why you mustn’t feel jealous of me. Still, I’m deeply glad we can begin again. And you—if you choose to hold yourself to these details out of love for God and obedience to Him, then this attire will be your crown, not just a covering.”
Muna answered with quiet confidence, her eyes shining:
“I promise you that, here before my father. And now… come, let’s sit and eat, while you tell me a little about yourself.”
They rose together and moved toward the table. On the walls, the shadows swayed like silent witnesses, listening as intently as they did, almost smiling.
Numan joined Mr. Ahmad and Muna at the table. A new chapter was beginning for each of them. Mr. Ahmad continued his steady rhythm of work, balancing his office, his constant phone calls, and his weekly journeys to Lebanon—two or three days at a time.