Deir el-Qamar Moonlight | ضوء قمر دير القمر
"She restores frescoes in Lebanon's ancient churches. He's the architect preserving the village's heritage. In Deir el-Qamar's moonlit streets, they discover that some restorations require two. 'Inti awdem shi bnit' (أنتِ أقدم شي بنيت)."
Deir el-Qamar Moonlight
ضوء قمر دير القمر
The village sleeps in centuries.
Deir el-Qamar—Monastery of the Moon. I've been restoring its frescoes for three years, living among ghosts and glory.
Then the architect arrives.
I'm Theresa.
Forty-seven, Maronite, shaped by years of reaching up to ceilings. My body carries the weight of art preservation.
Wissam Khoury is here to save the buildings I save from inside.
"Your scaffolding is blocking my survey."
I don't look down. "Your survey can wait. The Virgin's face is flaking."
"My deadline can't wait."
"Then work around me."
He works around me.
For three weeks, we dance around each other—literally. I move scaffolding; he adjusts surveys. We argue daily.
"You're compromising structural integrity—"
"You're compromising artistic integrity—"
"There's no art if the building collapses!"
He's fifty.
Studied at MIT, returned to save Lebanese heritage. His passion matches mine—different angle, same love.
"Why did you come back?" I ask one evening.
"Because someone has to." He looks at the ancient stones. "Why did you stay?"
"Same reason."
Understanding replaces argument.
We start consulting—his expertise informing mine, mine informing his. The work improves. So does everything else.
"You've revealed something." He studies the fresco I've uncovered. "Beneath the Ottoman layer—"
"Crusader-era. Original."
"It's beautiful." But he's looking at me.
"Wissam—"
"I'm looking at the fresco."
"You're not."
"No." He steps closer. "I'm looking at someone equally beautiful and ancient."
"I'm not ancient—"
"You're timeless. Like everything worth preserving."
The kiss happens in the church.
Under the Virgin's restored gaze. His hands cradle my face like I'm a fresco he's afraid to damage.
"Is this appropriate?" I whisper.
"Nothing about us is appropriate. Everything about us is right."
We make love in the old palace.
Where emirs once ruled, now a museum after hours. He lays me on restoration cloths, surrounded by history.
"Theresa—"
"Don't talk. Just—"
"Feel?"
"Restore."
He understands.
His hands work my body like stone—finding cracks, honoring original material, treating damage with care.
"Mashallah." He traces my curves. "Inti awdem shi bnit."
"Oldest thing you've built?"
"Most precious."
His mouth on my breasts.
Worshipping like they're sacred—which, in that moment, they feel. I arch into his touch.
"Wissam—"
"Tell me what you need."
"Everything you're willing to give."
He gives everything.
Mouth, hands, body. When he enters me, I feel centuries collapse into now.
"Ya Allah—"
"Aiwa—"
We move like restoration.
Layer by layer, revealing what was always there. My legs wrap around him. His thrusts deepen.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The orgasm reveals original beauty.
Stripped of damage, pure and whole. We cry out together under vaulted ceilings that have witnessed centuries of devotion.
We lie tangled on restoration cloths.
Deir el-Qamar sleeps around us. The moon—the qamar—shines through ancient windows.
"Partner?" he asks.
"In work?"
"In everything."
Four years later
The village is restored.
UNESCO recognition. International praise. But the real achievement is quieter—two people who found each other among ruins.
"Worth the arguments?" I ask.
"Every single one." He pulls me close. "Conflict built cathedrals."
Alhamdulillah.
For villages that remember.
For architects who preserve.
For restorers who find completion in each other.
The End.