Sétif Spring
"Hanane runs a flower shop in Sétif's market. When botanist Karim arrives researching highland flora, she shows him blooms that grow nowhere else—and feelings he never expected. 'El ward ma yensach' (الورد ما ينساش) - Flowers never forget."
Sétif's market exploded with color each spring—flowers tumbling from stalls like frozen waterfalls.
"Marhba," called the woman behind walls of roses. "Wach thawwes?"
Karim meant to say specimens. He said, "Enti."
She laughed—full and warm as spring sun. "Ward wla scientist?"
"Both." He fumbled for his credentials. "Rani botanist. Njit lil bahth."
"El ward ma yetderesch." Flowers can't be studied. "Yet'aych."
They're lived.
Hanane was forty-four, widowed young, childless by choice.
"El ward wladi," she said. Flowers are my children. "Kol yoam jadid."
Every day, new ones.
"Ma thawsich 'la shi thabet?"
"El jameel ma yethabetch." Beauty doesn't stay fixed. "Yet'hawwel."
He returned daily, notebook filling with sketches and observations—of flowers, and of her.
"Wach lqit?" she asked one evening.
"Shi ma kaynch f'el kutub."
"Wach?"
"Enti."
She showed him wild gardens outside Sétif—slopes carpeted with endemic species.
"Hna yenbtou wahdhoum," she said. They grow alone here.
"Kima enti."
"Machi wahdiya." She met his eyes. "El ward m'aya."
"W ana?"
She considered him with gardener's judgment. "Mazelt tenbat."
Still growing.
"Warini kifeh nenbat."
They kissed among wildflowers, highland wind carrying their mingled breath.
"Karim," she whispered.
"El ward ma yensach," he said. Flowers never forget.
"Wach yetdhakrou?"
"Hadi."
Her cottage sat behind the shop, garden overflowing with experiments.
"Hna nrabbihoum," she explained. Here I raise them.
"Warini wach ktar trebbieh."
She unwrapped like a flower opening—layer after layer revealing beauty he hadn't imagined.
"Mashallah," he breathed. "Enti ahla ward."
"Kbira."
"Kamla." He traced her curves. "Kol petala f blastha."
Every petal in its place.
He kissed her like pollination—slow, thorough, essential. Hanane bloomed beneath him.
"Ya rabbi," she gasped.
"Hna." His mouth found her center. "El nectare."
She came apart like spring erupting—sudden, inevitable, beautiful. Karim drank her sweetness.
"Dkhol," she demanded. "El waqt."
The time.
He entered her among her garden, and everything flowered.
"Ya latif," he groaned.
"Aktar." She pulled him deeper. "Enbat f'ya."
Grow in me.
Their rhythm matched spring's urgency—life demanding life, bloom demanding bloom.
"Qrib," she warned.
"M'aya." He drove into her softness. "El ward ma yensach."
They flowered together, pleasure spreading like fields in bloom. Karim held her through the tremors.
"Tbqa?" she whispered.
"El ward yhtaj el shams." Flowers need sun. "Ana nhtajek."
His research extended—seasons, years. Colleagues asked about publications.
"Kayn wahda kbira njejezha," he promised.
But his real work was in Hanane's garden, growing something that couldn't be published.
"El botanist w el wardiya," the market calls them.
"El ward jab'houm," Hanane corrects.
"El ward ykhelihoum," Karim adds.
Spring, they've learned, is a state of heart.