That night, a breeze moved through the orchard, rustling the leaves like a whispered blessing. The fig sapling stood quietly under the stars, its slender form dancing in the moonlight.
Inside the guest house, a light glowed warm through the windows. Laughter. The soft clink of mugs. The creak of old floorboards. Life was beginning—again, and again, and again.
Farah sat by the window, notebook open on her lap. Her pen hovered above the page. She glanced toward Nael, asleep with one arm flung across the pillow, sun-touched and still smiling in his dreams.
She wrote just one line:
"Some stories don't end—they find a place to grow."
Then she closed the notebook and watched the stars, the night wrapping gently around the house like a promise.
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The End