In the town of El-Mahdia, where the sea kissed the edge of old stone and jasmine vines curled over blue-painted doors, there lived a girl named Noor. Her world was built on small, beautiful things—delicate blossoms, whispered wishes, and the softness of morning light.
She ran a tiny flower stall just outside the old bus station, tucked between a cracked mosaic wall and a café where seagulls gathered like gossiping elders. Every day, she arranged flowers into poems no one read: shy violets, hopeful marigolds, roses that blushed in the sun. She gave each bouquet a name. Most customers never asked. Most never looked twice.
But Noor didn't mind. Her joy was quiet. She found it in the flutter of petals, the way dew clung to jasmine, the hush before a smile. She didn't need to be seen.
Until he saw her.
It was a Thursday in March when the boy appeared, guitar slung over his shoulder, curls falling into his eyes. He had the air of someone who'd wandered off the page of a novel—half-lost, half-searching. He stopped in front of her stall and stared, not at the flowers, but at Noor.
She looked up from her wrapping, fingers still tying twine around a bundle of wild thyme.
"Are you Noor?" he asked.
She blinked. No one asked that. Most days, she was just "the flower girl."
"I am," she said slowly. "How did you—?"
"You dropped this." He held up her scarf, the one embroidered with tiny olive branches. "It flew across the street like it had somewhere to be."
Her fingers brushed his as she took it back. "Thank you."
He smiled. "You smell like spring."
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Her heart had suddenly forgotten how to beat properly.
He nodded toward the café across the road. "I play there. Guitar. For tips and espresso."
"I've heard you."
"Then we're even. I've watched you."
His name was Adam.
He returned the next day. And the day after. Each time with a new song, sometimes clumsy, sometimes haunting. He'd sit on the café steps, strumming while Noor worked. She never asked him to come. He never needed to be asked.
They shared silences. Shared glances. Tea, once. She gave him a bouquet once labeled "Hope in Slow Bloom."
He gave her a song called "The Girl Behind the Flowers."
And for the first time, Noor began to wonder if she could be more than just a quiet girl in a quiet stall.
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Chapter Two: Songs in the Dust
Adam's music became a part of Noor's days, the way the rustle of leaves and the hum of the sea were. She began to notice the way his fingers moved like they were dancing when he played. The way his eyes searched the sky when he was thinking of lyrics.
On a Tuesday morning, he arrived with a lemon pastry and placed it next to a small bouquet she had made from mimosa and tiny wild asters.
"You haven't been eating," he said, nodding at her tea-only breakfasts.
She looked at the pastry, then at him. "You're observant."
"I notice things I want to remember."
Noor didn't reply, but she broke the pastry in half and offered him the larger piece.
From then on, they shared morning pastries and stories. Adam told her about his childhood in Tunis—how his mother taught him to play on an old guitar with only four strings, how music had always been his way of speaking when words failed him.
Noor told him about her grandmother who once ran the flower stall. About how she learned to read meaning in petals, the language of blooms. Her voice always carried a trace of awe, as if the world was a mystery she was still grateful to be part of.
One day, as the sun dipped low and painted the pavement in gold, Adam asked, "Do you ever leave your stall?"
She smiled, tilting her head. "Why would I? Everything I need comes here."
"But if I wanted to take you somewhere—just once—would you come?"
She paused. Then whispered, "Where?"
"Somewhere with no flowers at all."
Noor laughed, and to Adam, it sounded like the first chord of a new song.
That Saturday, they walked through the dusty ruins of an old amphitheater at El Jem. Noor carried a small notebook and jotted words between the columns while Adam hummed a tune he couldn't quite finish. The world felt vast, and for once, she didn't feel small in it.
They didn't kiss that day. They didn't have to. But their shadows walked closely, as if they were already in love.
Back at her stall the next morning, Noor found a note hidden beneath a pot of thyme.
"You are the melody that plays even when the music stops." — A.
She pressed the note to her chest and closed her eyes.
She was beginning to believe she could be remembered.