Tissemsilt Twilight
"Meriem guards the cedar forests of Tissemsilt. When ecologist Mikhail arrives studying endangered trees, she teaches him that forests think in centuries. 'El ghaba tetdhakker' (الغابة تتذكّر) - The forest remembers."
Tissemsilt's cedars had witnessed Rome, Byzantium, Arabs, Turks, France. Meriem witnessed them.
"Atlas cedars," Mikhail catalogued. "Endangered."
"Ma endangeredch." Not endangered. "Sabra."
Patient.
Her ranger station perched among giants—trees older than nations, wiser than humans.
"Can I take core samples?"
"El shajar 'andhom rouh."
"Trees have souls?"
"Tqoul la?"
She was substantial—forest-shaped, moving through trees like one of them.
"How long have you guarded?"
"El ghaba 'andha guardians dima."
"Always?"
"El ghaba tetdhakker."
Days among cedars changed him. Mikhail saw trees responding to her presence.
"They move when you come."
"Yselmlou."
"Trees greet you?"
"Nhna 'ayla."
"What family?"
"El ard koulha 'ayla."
Night brought forest sounds—conversations in wind, arguments in creaking.
"Tesma'?"
He heard—not wind, but words.
"Ya latif."
"El ghaba tetdhakker."
She led him to the oldest cedar—trunk like a temple, branches like prayers.
"Hadi el jedda."
"The grandmother?"
"T'alemna koulech."
"Meriem..."
"El shajar qalouli."
"Trees told you?"
"Yqoulou you listen."
She kissed him in cedared cathedral.
"Hada..."
"El ghaba toafeq."
The forest agrees.
She undressed in trunk shadow, her curves ring-marked like wood.
"Mashallah," he breathed.
"El ghaba," she said. "Ana shajra."
He studied her like tree rings—counting years, reading weather.
"Mikhail," she moaned.
"Hna." He found her core. "El qalb."
She grew beneath him, pleasure annual.
"Dkhol," she gasped. "El jdhr."
He rooted in her, and understood what forests meant.
"El ghaba tetdhakker," she cried.
"Nzidou l'el dhakira."
We add to the memory.
Their rhythm was growth—slow, strong, permanent.
"Qrib," she warned.
"M'aya." He drove into roots. "El ghaba tetdhakker."
They grew together, pleasure arboreal. Mikhail held her through the seasons.
"El research?" she asked.
"Changed."
"Wach lqit?"
"Forests aren't resources. They're relatives."
His conservation reports transformed policy—trees as beings, forests as communities.
"El approach?" agencies asked.
"El ghaba tetdhakker."
Now he guards beside her, learning what textbooks miss.
"El ecologist w el harissat el ghaba," they say.
"El ghaba jab'tna," Meriem smiles.
"El ghaba tkhallina," Mikhail adds.
Some forests adopt you.