The Terraced Hills
"Engineer Kareem helps Palestinian villages maintain their ancient agricultural terraces—until he meets Dalia, who teaches him some structures need hearts, not blueprints."
The Terraced Hills
The terraces climbed the hills in steps carved by a hundred generations—stone walls holding soil, holding memory, holding everything.
"You're the engineer."
Kareem looked up from his sketches. The woman watching him had farmer's hands and city eyes.
"And you are?"
"Dalia. This is my grandmother's land. She sent me to watch you."
"Watch me do what?"
"Ruin everything, probably. That's what engineers usually do."
She was wrong, and she knew it. Kareem worked with the land, not against it—respecting the ancient structures, reinforcing without changing.
"You're different," Dalia admitted after a week.
"Different how?"
"You listen to the stones. Most people just see problems to solve."
"The stones have been here longer than any of us. They know things." He met her eyes. "So do you."
"What do I know?"
"How to make me want to stay longer than I should."
The project extended. So did their time together—walking the terraces, sharing meals with her grandmother, pretending their touches were accidental.
"Why don't you just kiss me?" Dalia demanded one evening.
"Professional boundaries."
"The project's almost done. Then what?"
"Then I find another excuse. Or..." He trailed off.
"Or what?"
"Or I do this."
He kissed her against the ancient stones, a thousand years of farmers watching.
They made love on the terraced hills, the land cradling them.
"Ya Allah," Kareem breathed. "Dalia—"
"Don't analyze it. Just feel."
He felt. Every curve of her body, every contour of the land, the way both yielded to careful attention.
"Stay," she gasped. "After the project. Stay here."
"There's nothing here for an engineer—"
"There's everything here. The land. The terraces. Me."
"I'll stay," Kareem said afterward. "Build something permanent."
"What kind of something?"
"A life. A home. Whatever you'll let me." He kissed her forehead. "I came to fix stone walls. I found something that can't be fixed because it isn't broken."
"What's that?"
"This. Us. The feeling that I'm finally where I belong."
"Na'am," Dalia agreed. "But you're explaining it to my grandmother. She thinks I'm still a child."
"She'll adjust."
"She always does."
Around them, the terraces held firm—ancient, enduring, proof that some structures lasted forever when built with love.