Brummana Autumn Leaves | أوراق خريف برمانا
"She teaches at the Quaker school in Brummana, preparing for retirement. He's the alumnus who returns to donate his fortune. In autumn's change, they find unexpected spring. 'Inti el fasel el jdid' (أنتِ الفصل الجديد)."
Brummana Autumn Leaves
أوراق خريف برمانا
Schools hold all the futures.
I've taught at Brummana High for thirty-five years, watched students become doctors, failures, successes, ghosts.
Then one returns with millions.
I'm Miss Sawaya.
Sixty, history teacher, body softened by decades of desks. The students call me eternal. I'm actually just tired.
Rami Khater was my student in 1988.
"Miss Sawaya. You haven't changed."
"You have." The gangly boy is now silver-templed, successful. "What brings you back?"
"I want to give back. And I wanted to see you."
He's fifty-two.
Tech entrepreneur, made fortune in Dubai, never married. His donation will transform the school.
"Why education?"
"Because you taught me to think. That paid for everything."
"I taught you history."
"You taught me to question. Same thing."
He stays for dedication ceremonies.
Finds excuses to visit, to consult, to take me for coffee that becomes dinner that becomes conversation.
"Why aren't you married?" I ask.
"Never found anyone who challenged me like you did."
"I was your teacher—"
"You're not anymore."
The realization lands differently.
Thirty-four years of seeing him as student. Now he's a man, looking at me like I'm a woman.
"Rami—"
"I've thought about you for decades. Is that inappropriate?"
"It's... surprising."
"Surprising isn't bad."
His hand covers mine. "Inti el fasel el jdid." You're the new season.
"I'm the oldest season."
"Autumn has the best colors."
The kiss happens in my classroom.
Where I taught him, where I've taught thousands. His mouth on mine is history made present.
"This is unexpected—"
"Everything worth having is."
We make love in my school apartment.
Where I've lived alone for decades. He lays me down with graduate reverence.
"Mashallah." He breathes. "You're—"
"Old. Your former teacher—"
"Extraordinary. Still extraordinary."
He worships me with student eagerness.
Finally allowed. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Rami—"
"I've earned this. We both have."
His tongue between my thighs.
I grip my bed, crying out. Pleasure like late-life surprise.
"Ya Allah—"
"Tell me everything. Teach me."
When he enters me, I feel young.
We move together in autumn's house—his body and mine, seasons combining.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is graduation.
We cry out together—finally, finally. Then we lie in autumn light, leaves falling outside.
Three years later
I don't retire.
Rami builds a new library; I teach in it. Students whisper about the benefactor who visits the old teacher.
"Worth the donation?" I ask.
"Best investment I ever made." He kisses me as leaves fall. "Every penny."
Alhamdulillah.
For schools that connect.
For students who return.
For teachers who find spring in autumn.
The End.