The storm passed by morning, leaving everything scrubbed clean and glistening. Dew clung to the leaves like tiny stars. The animals were calm again, grazing in wet grass like nothing had happened.
Nael walked the edge of the field, camera slung across his back, but he hadn't taken a single photo.
His mind was somewhere else—or rather, with someone else.
Farah was fixing a broken gate when he approached. She didn't look up.
"Need help?" he asked.
"You'll just break it more."
He smiled, crouching beside her. "You're grumpier when you're confused."
Her eyes flicked to him, sharp. "I'm not confused."
"You are."
She let out a short breath. "Maybe I am. Maybe you are."
"I've been a lot of things," Nael said quietly. "But I'm not playing."
Farah paused in her hammering. The wind stirred her hair. "This place... it's my entire world, Nael."
"I know."
"And your world is out there. Always moving."
"I thought so too," he said. "But now—every morning, I hope you'll be where I left you. Every night, I don't want to leave the porch."
She met his gaze, raw and open. "Don't make promises you can't keep."
"I'm not," he whispered.
There was a silence then, heavy and delicate as spun glass. Then Farah stood up, brushing off her hands.
"I have work to do."
Nael let her go, even though everything in him wanted to follow.
---
That night, after dinner, Nana Salma pulled him aside.
"She's scared," she said.
"I know."
"She's lost things. Her parents, her peace, her trust."
Nael swallowed. "I don't want to be another loss."
Nana smiled gently. "Then be the one who stays."
---
Later, Nael sat beneath the old olive tree with a notebook in his lap. For once, the camera was silent. He began to write—not for a documentary, not for a project. Just for her.
Words poured out of him like the storm—honest, messy, beautiful.
And above him, the stars began to gather, as if listening.