Saida Sea Castle | قلعة صيدا البحرية
"She preserves manuscripts in Saida's old library. He's the rare book dealer who arrives with a suspicious collection. Between crumbling pages, they uncover truths worth protecting. 'Inti akthar min ay ktab' (أنتِ أكثر من أي كتاب)."
Saida Sea Castle
قلعة صيدا البحرية
The manuscripts came from the castle.
Centuries of accumulated knowledge, damaged by sea and time. I've spent twenty years saving what I can.
Then he arrives with texts that shouldn't exist.
I'm Rabab.
Forty-nine, trained in conservation, body shaped by years hunched over fragile pages. The Al-Maarad Library is my realm.
Tarek Salloum deals in what others discard.
"These are Crusader-era."
"I know what they are."
"They're stolen." I don't touch them. "No provenance."
"No one wants them. They'll rot otherwise."
"And you profit from their rescue?"
He's fifty-three.
Rare book dealer, reputation questionable, hands that know how to handle old things—including me, apparently, given how he looks.
"I don't profit. I preserve. Differently."
"The difference being?"
"I don't wait for permission."
I should report him.
Instead, I examine the manuscripts. Exquisite—twelfth century, unique. Worth millions to collectors. Worth more to scholarship.
"What do you want for them?"
"Your help. Authenticating. Conserving."
"And in return?"
"They go to your library. Permanently."
Something doesn't add up.
But the manuscripts are genuine. Over weeks, we work together—his expertise in acquisition, mine in preservation.
"Why give them away?"
"Because I found them in the castle ruins. They belong to Saida."
"You could have sold them."
"I could have. Then what?"
He sees my confusion.
"I've spent thirty years selling heritage to the highest bidder. It stops mattering." He touches a fragile page. "This matters."
"Redemption?"
"Maybe. Or just wanting something to mean something."
The kiss happens in the archive.
Surrounded by centuries of words, sea-damaged and precious. His mouth on mine tastes like paper and possibility.
"Rabab—"
"This is unprofessional—"
"So is wanting you. I still do." His hands find my waist. "Inti akthar min ay ktab."
"More than any book?"
"More than any collection I've ever touched."
We make love among manuscripts.
Carefully—oh so carefully—on cloths meant for conservation. He undresses me with a book dealer's patience.
"Mashallah." He breathes against my skin. "You're—"
"Dust-covered. Ink-stained—"
"Irreplaceable."
He worships me like rare text.
Every curve worth studying. His mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Tarek—"
"Let me read you. Every page."
His tongue finds my center.
I grip archive shelves, gasping. The pleasure is meticulous, thorough, professional.
"Ya Allah—"
"That's it. Tell me everything."
When he enters me, I feel preserved.
We move together among centuries of knowledge. His body a manuscript I'm learning.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is a discovery.
We cry out together—something rare, something found. The manuscripts witness, silent and eternal.
Three years later
The Salloum Collection opens.
Fifty texts, donated anonymously. Tarek stays in Saida, helping me preserve what remains.
"Worth going legitimate?" I ask.
"I found something worth more than profit." He kisses me among books. "You. This. Always."
Alhamdulillah.
For manuscripts that survive.
For dealers who find conscience.
For librarians who see past damage.
The End.