Koura Olive Grove | بستان زيتون الكورة
"She inherited the oldest olive grove in Koura. He's the agronomist who says it's dying. Between ancient trees, they discover what truly needs saving. 'Inti tjaddi aamri' (أنتِ تجددي عمري)."
Koura Olive Grove
بستان زيتون الكورة
Some trees are older than countries.
My olive trees have stood since the Crusades. Now they're sick, and I'm losing them.
The agronomist says he can help.
I'm Mirna.
Fifty, unmarried, shaped by olive harvests and solitude. This grove is my family's tomb and legacy.
Dr. Walid Khouri examines trees like patients.
"Verticillium wilt."
"Can you cure it?"
"Maybe. If we act now." He touches bark older than surnames. "These are irreplaceable."
"I know what they are."
He's fifty-four.
Plant pathologist, lost his family farm to development. Now he saves what others can't—when they let him.
"Why do you care?"
"Because someone didn't care about mine."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Be determined."
We fight for the trees.
Treatment, soil management, hope. He arrives daily, stays late, becomes part of the rhythm I've known alone.
"You don't have to do this much—"
"Shu?"
"Stay. Every day."
"Where else would I be?"
The grove responds.
Slowly—new growth, healthier leaves. He teaches me to see what I'd missed, loving blindly instead of wisely.
"You need to prune here—"
"I've never pruned there."
"That's the problem. Love isn't always gentle."
His words apply to more than trees.
"Are you talking about olives?"
"Am I?" He straightens, facing me. "Mirna—"
"Don't—"
"I've spent three months here. I need to say this."
"I'm here for the trees—"
"You're here because you need to save something." He steps closer. "So do I."
"I'm not a project."
"You're not. You're the only person who's made me feel hopeful."
The kiss happens under the oldest tree.
Eight hundred years of witness. His hands frame my face like I'm ancient and precious.
"Walid—"
"Tell me this isn't just the trees."
"It's not just the trees."
We make love in the olive grove.
On cloths used for harvest, surrounded by trees that have seen everything. He undresses me slowly.
"Mashallah." He breathes. "Inti—"
"Old. Rooted. Stuck—"
"Inti tjaddi aamri." You renew my years.
He worships me like ancient soil.
Hands learning my terrain. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Walid—"
"Let me tend you. The way I tend these trees."
His tongue finds my center.
I grip the earth my family has worked for centuries. Pleasure rooting deep.
"Ya Allah—"
"Grow for me. Bloom."
When he enters me, I feel grafted.
New life on old roots. We move together under branches that have seen crusaders.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is harvest.
Everything ripening at once. We cry out together, then lie among trees that approve, I think.
Three years later
The grove is healthy.
Walid never left. We harvest together now—his expertise, my inheritance, our love.
"Worth saving?" I ask.
"Everything worth having takes work." He pulls me close. "The trees. This. You."
Alhamdulillah.
For groves that endure.
For agronomists who care.
For women who learn to be saved too.
The End.