After the Vows

The morning after the wedding was quieter than the night before, though the echoes of laughter and music still seemed to linger between the olive branches. Farah stood at the edge of the grove, a shawl draped around her shoulders, watching the golden light spill over the hills.

Nael appeared beside her, barefoot, holding two mugs of tea. He handed her one without a word and leaned gently into her side. For once, he wasn't thinking about where to go next.

"This place," he murmured, voice still rough with sleep, "feels like it's been waiting for us."

Farah smiled into her cup. "Or maybe we were just slow getting here."

They walked back to the farmhouse hand in hand, passing empty chairs, petals caught in the grass, and ribbons fluttering from tree branches. The world felt soft, like the hush after a storm.

Inside, Nana Salma was humming as she kneaded dough, while Jiddo Omar read the paper, pretending not to watch them with quiet pride.

Later that afternoon, Nael rolled out a sketch he'd been working on—plans for a small retreat nestled on the far side of the farm, facing the hills. "A space for wanderers," he said, eyes bright. "Writers. Artists. People who need to breathe."

Farah traced the lines with her fingers. "And we'll run it together?"

"Together," he said, pulling her in, "between your roots and my wings."

That evening, they planted a fig tree near the olive grove, its sapling slender but strong. Farah pressed her palm into the soil, Nael covering it with his own. It was a beginning—not of adventure or of stillness, but of something entirely new. Something shared.

They had chosen each other, not in place of the wild or the home—but because of both.

And beneath a sky dusted with stars, they dreamed aloud of the life they were about to build

As the sun dipped low, casting a soft amber over the fields, the quiet hum of life returned to the farm. Chickens clucked lazily near the coop. The goats had wandered close to the orchard, and Farah's old cat, Toot, curled herself in the warmth of the porch.

Nael was already ankle-deep in wildgrass, scouting the far edge of the land where the retreat might rise. Farah watched him from a distance, arms crossed, eyes smiling. He moved differently now—still free, still curious, but slower somehow. Like he was finally allowing himself to belong.

He called her over. "Look at this," he said, pointing to a ridge where wildflowers grew thick. "Imagine little cabins here, maybe a reading deck overlooking that tree line."

Farah stepped beside him, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Only if we build a greenhouse too. For herbs and tea plants."

Nael grinned. "Deal."

They stood in silence, imagining their dreams shaping into something real. Not just for themselves, but for others who had wandered too far from their own sense of home.

Later, inside the old guest house—now theirs—they lay together on the bed Nael had once thought of as temporary. His fingers trailed along her arm. "I used to think the wild was where I'd always belong," he whispered. "But maybe it was just leading me here."

Farah kissed his shoulder, a soft, sure thing. "You can still chase the wild," she said. "Just promise me you'll always come back."

"I'll always come back," he said. "But more than that—I want to stay."

And outside, the fig tree stood as a witness, its roots beginning to reach into the earth, anchoring their new beginning.