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The town had been whispering about the festival for days. Streamers of soft linen cloth began appearing on doorposts, baskets of pomegranates and figs were stacked in the markets, and the scent of fresh cardamom pastries wafted down every sunlit alley. It was a harvest celebration, the kind of gathering that spoke of community, of peace — things that felt foreign to Alya after months of fleeing, surviving, and stitching together the pieces of her old world.

The group had been hesitant at first, still stiff from the habit of caution, but the locals were warm and insistent. "You are our guests, but now you are also our neighbors," one woman said to Alya, pressing a neatly folded scarf into her hands. "You must celebrate with us."

So they did.

Children ran with painted wooden toys through the market square. Umm al-Kabira sat on a bench shaded by flowering vines, her laugh mingling with the older women. Khalid and Tariq leaned against a low stone wall, chewing roasted corn, content for once in stillness. Samir and Zayd stood off to the side, surveying the crowd with the quiet attention of men who had seen too much, too recently.

Alya walked with Amira past the food stalls, hands brushing occasionally as they pointed at things, half-joking, half-amazed.

"It feels unreal," Amira said, looking at a boy juggling glass bottles. "Like we stepped into someone else's dream."

Alya smiled. "A good one, though."

Then Amira paused. Her eyes locked on a figure arranging spices at one of the stalls. He was young, with a narrow face and sharp cheekbones, his sleeves rolled to the elbow as he tied bundles of cinnamon and cloves.

"Who is that?" she asked, too softly.

Alya followed her gaze. "The merchant's son, I think. We bought figs from him yesterday."

Amira didn’t reply, but her steps slowed. Alya could see it — the faint glow of curiosity, the way Amira’s hands curled against her dress. And for a moment, a strange emotion coiled in Alya's chest. Not jealousy, no — but something protective, fierce. They had lost too much to flirt with strangers.

"He’s just a boy," Alya said.

"So was everyone once," Amira murmured. "Even Zayd."

That night, lights bloomed like fireflies across the square. Music drifted from flutes and soft drums. Zayd stood at the edge of the celebration, arms crossed, his shoulder stiff beneath the healing bandage. A local imam had spoken with him earlier, praising his composure, his leadership, and asking — kindly, humbly — if Zayd would consider training their guards or serving the community in a permanent role.

Zayd had thanked him, but declined.

He sat on the edge of the fountain now, watching Alya from across the square. Her hijab was wrapped neatly, modestly framing her face. She laughed at something Amira said — the kind of unguarded laugh that loosened his chest and made him ache.

He reached for his journal later that evening, alone in the quiet garden behind the guesthouse.

In this place , the land is still . There is no smoke on the horizon. There is time to breath . I should feel peace , but i fear it. I fear what happens when I'm no longer needed

But maybe... maybe peace os not my enemy. Maybe it is the path. I watch her laugh , and I think of the things I have no right to .

Two days later, the sickness started.

It began with a cough, then fatigue. A handful of people — mostly children — showed symptoms. The town moved quickly, and so did their group. Umm al-Kabira volunteered her knowledge, Samir ran errands for the town’s small clinic, and Alya, steady-handed and clear-eyed, joined the nurses.

The merchant boy fell ill. Amira volunteered to help his family, though Alya warned her not to get too close. "You don’t owe him anything," she said.

"I know," Amira said. "But I want to. That’s different."

The illness turned out to be a strain of flu — manageable, treatable. By the end of the week, most patients had recovered, and the town held another small gathering to give thanks. This time, it was quieter. More subdued.

That night, Zayd returned to the guesthouse later than usual. He found Alya alone in the garden, reading a storybook to two neighborhood children.

He paused in the archway, watching her voice soften for the ending, her fingers smoothing the child’s tangled curls. When the children were called away, Alya turned and met his gaze.

"You didn't take the job," she said.

He nodded. "No."

"Why?"

Zayd’s voice was quiet. "Because I would rather build than fight. And because for the first time, I wonder if my future lies somewhere more... gentle."

She didn’t answer. But she smiled.

And for once, he didn’t look away.

Sorry for the short chapter , but I have endless exams in school right now 😭