Music Manuscript
"Musicologist Amina preserves traditional Saudi melodies. When composer Oleg seeks authentic sounds for his symphony, notes become more than music. 'Al musiqa lughit al ruh' (الموسيقى لغة الروح) - Music is the soul's language."
"That melody isn't for Western orchestras."
Oleg Volkov set down his pen. "Why not?"
"Because you'll turn it into something it's not." Amina stopped the recording. "These songs aren't sheet music. They're souls."
He'd been commissioned for a cultural symphony—Saudi heritage interpreted for global audiences. She guarded the source material.
"Al musiqa lughit al ruh," she explained. Music is the soul's language.
"Then help me speak it."
"Why should I?"
"Because you want these melodies heard."
Damn. He was right.
Weeks of translation—not words, but feelings. She taught him what notes couldn't capture.
"This passage should sound like grief," she instructed.
"It's in a major key."
"Arabian grief isn't minor." She hummed the melody. "It's complex. Like us."
"Why do you guard this so carefully?" Oleg asked.
"Because my grandmother sang these before dying." Her voice caught. "Because they're all I have left of her."
"I'll honor them."
"Promise?"
"On my life."
"You're different from other composers," Amina admitted.
"How?"
"You listen first. Compose second."
"Music isn't speaking." He met her eyes. "It's conversation."
The first kiss happened as he played her grandmother's melody—perfectly rendered, lovingly translated.
"You understood," Amina breathed.
"You taught me."
They made love surrounded by instruments and manuscripts.
"You're beautiful," Oleg murmured.
"I'm a scholar."
"Scholars are beautiful." He kissed her curves. "You especially."
His hands traced paths down her body like fingers finding keys—precise, melodic. When he reached her center, Amina gripped sheet music.
"Aktar," she gasped. "Oleg, aktar!"
"Finding the rhythm."
She came surrounded by music, pleasure harmonizing through her. Oleg rose, eyes bright.
"I need you," he confessed.
"Then compose me." She pulled him close. "Make us a symphony."
He filled her with a groan, both moving in rhythm their collaboration demanded.
"Ya lyublyu tebya," he gasped in Russian.
"Translation?"
"I love you."
They moved together like duet finding harmony—separate voices, perfect blend.
"I'm close," he warned.
"Sawa." She held him tight. "Ma'aya."
They crested together, pleasure crescendoing. Oleg held her as silence returned.
"The symphony," he said.
"What about it?"
"It's dedicated to you." He kissed her forehead. "And your grandmother."
The premiere was legendary—traditional melodies soaring through orchestral interpretation, audiences weeping.
"How did you capture authenticity?" critics asked.
"I fell in love with its keeper," Oleg answered honestly.
Their wedding featured both orchestral and traditional music—grandmother's songs surrounding them.
"Al musiqa lughit al ruh," Amina repeated.
"And ours," Oleg added, "speak the same language."
Some melodies, they'd learned, couldn't be transcribed. They could only be felt—passed heart to heart, keeper to keeper, grandmother to granddaughter to the one who finally understood.