Ain Zhalta Silver | فضة عين زحلتا
"She crafts traditional silver jewelry in Ain Zhalta. He's the antique dealer from London who found her work in a forgotten trunk. Between hammer and metal, they discover what's truly precious. 'Inti el faddeh el asliyi' (أنتِ الفضة الأصلية)."
Ain Zhalta Silver
فضة عين زحلتا
Silver keeps secrets.
Every piece I make holds stories—intentions, prayers, love. My grandmother's craft, passed through generations.
Then the dealer arrives with pieces I recognize.
I'm Warda.
Fifty-five, silversmith, hands permanently darkened by metal. My workshop in Ain Zhalta is my cathedral.
Edward Cole trades in what others discard.
"Where did you find these?"
"An estate sale in Surrey." He lays out the pieces. "The hallmark led me here."
"My grandmother's work." I touch them, trembling. "Sold during the famine."
He's fifty-eight.
London dealer, Lebanese mother he never met. His journey here is personal, though he hides it professionally.
"I want to return them."
"For a price."
"No. For answers."
"What answers?"
"My mother was from here. She died before telling me anything." He watches me examine the silver. "Your family made these. Maybe your family knew her."
"What was her name?"
"Hala. Hala Salim."
I know that name.
My grandmother's best friend, who went to England and never returned. Her story is in my family's memory.
"I have letters."
His hands shake. "You do?"
"They were close. Hala and my grandmother. I'll show you."
Days become weeks.
We read letters, trace histories, fill gaps. His mother comes alive; my grandmother does too.
"Thank you," he says one evening.
"Li shu?"
"For giving me what I came for. And more."
The more is us.
Working together in my workshop. His hands learning silver, mine learning him. Something forms between us.
"Edward—"
"I know this is unexpected—"
"Everything is unexpected. That's the only constant."
The kiss happens at the forge.
Heat around us, silver cooling. His mouth on mine is question and answer.
"Warda—"
"Don't leave."
"I don't want to."
We make love in my workshop.
Among generations of craft. He undresses me like unwrapping treasure.
"Mashallah." His voice breaks. "You're—"
"Large. Old. Metal-stained—"
"Inti el faddeh el asliyi." The genuine silver.
He worships me like precious metal.
Hands tracing hallmarks of age and work. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Edward—"
"Let me honor you. The way I should have honored my mother's home."
His tongue between my thighs.
I grip the forge edge, crying out. Pleasure forged by his attention.
"Ya Allah—"
"Beautiful. You're so beautiful."
When he enters me, we're alloy.
Two metals becoming one. We move together with hammer rhythm.
"Aktar—"
"Yes—"
The climax is finished jewelry.
Complete, precious, lasting. We cry out together, then collapse among silver tools.
Two years later
Edward stays in Ain Zhalta.
Trades antiques online, learns smithing, honors his mother by living in her home.
"Worth the journey?" I ask.
"I came for answers. Found home." He kisses my metal-dark fingers. "Found you."
Alhamdulillah.
For silver that connects.
For dealers who seek sources.
For smiths who become precious.
The End.