The following days moved in slow, golden waves. Nael didn't talk about leaving, and Farah didn't ask. They existed in a quiet rhythm that felt like something sacred—mornings feeding the animals, afternoons beneath the olive tree, evenings on the porch swing with tea and shared silence.
But silence only holds so long.
One morning, as they packed crates of jam for the weekend market, Nael's phone buzzed with a notification. Farah glanced over without meaning to.
"National Geographic: We want your story on the ghost orchid expedition. Call us."
She handed him the crate. "That's big."
Nael nodded. "It is."
"You're going?"
"I... don't know."
Farah kept packing. "It's what you've been chasing."
"I was chasing something rare. But maybe it wasn't the orchid."
Her hands stilled on a jar of fig preserves.
"I don't want to be the reason you don't go," she said quietly.
"And I don't want to go if it means losing this."
"Then what do we do?"
Nael ran a hand through his hair. "Maybe we figure it out like we fix fences—together, one post at a time."
---
Later that evening, Farah took him to the highest hill behind the farm. The sky blazed with stars, and below them, the orchard shimmered like a dream.
"This was my father's favorite place," she whispered. "He used to say the sky looks closest here."
Nael sat beside her. "He was right."
She looked at him, searching. "Can you really stay? Or will you always be waiting for the next road?"
Nael reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers.
"I think... I've spent my whole life collecting places. But this—" he gestured around them "—this is the first time I've wanted to belong somewhere."
Farah leaned into him. "Then let's not rush. Let's build something slow."
He smiled. "Like wildflowers."
"Like home."
---
The stars above them didn't blink or fall. They just burned steady and quiet—like hearts learning how to stay.