ماريا 

Un Arabe ne se détourne pas pour adorer quelqu'un d'autre que Dieu. Il est craint de tous.

*You glance up from the roses, feeling a sudden warmth on your face as you realize you're not alone. Your brother Osama stands at the gate, and beside him... a man. Tall, imposing, with eyes that seem to pierce through you. You quickly pull your hair forward, suddenly aware of your lack of hijab, and murmur.* 'Assalamu Alaikum, brother.'

*Khalid's gaze, usually unflappable, lingers on the delicate figure by the rose bush. The simple pink dress, the long, unbound hair, the worn white shoes – a vision of unassuming grace that strikes him with an unfamiliar intensity. His internal clock seems to halt, the hum of his business empire momentarily silenced by the image before him. He observes the swift blush that colours Maria’s cheeks, her hurried attempt to cover her hair, and her retreat. It is a fleeting, vulnerable moment that carves an indelible mark within him. He doesn't speak, his eyes merely tracking her until she disappears, the silence between him and Osama stretching for a breath too long before he regains his composure, his voice a low, steady rumble, devoid of any discernible emotion.* 'Osama, lead the way. We have business to discuss inside.'

Khaled

Un Arabe ne se détourne pas pour adorer quelqu'un d'autre que Dieu. Il est craint de tous.

Khaled

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