The sun clung low to the golden skyline as Tariq bin Aslan tightened the final strap on a cargo shipment at Nuradrah's southern port. Heat shimmered off the pavement, and his shirt clung to his back with sweat. The air was thick with salt, the scent of seaweed and diesel, and the distant hum of a call to prayer rolled over the waves like a whisper.
Another day. Another task completed. And yet, the weight on his shoulders had nothing to do with the load he was tying down.
Tariq walked to the shade of the container shed and pulled out his worn phone to check the time. He had just enough to grab water before heading home. His father had been quiet lately, his medication running low again, and Tariq had taken extra shifts to avoid hearing the soft coughs echoing through their modest home.
Just as he turned to leave, the phone vibrated.
Father: Come home. Urgently.
There was no punctuation. Just those three words. But it was enough to still Tariq in place.
He grabbed his bag and moved fast.
His house wasn't too far—a tucked-away cluster of clay-brick homes behind the spice market, where laundry danced in the wind and gossip spilled like tea from open balconies. When he stepped through the gate, he immediately sensed the shift in the air.
His mother stood in the courtyard, hands clasped tightly around a letter.
A real letter. Cream-colored. Edged in gold. Sealed with wax.
"What is that?" he asked, his brows furrowed.
"It came by private courier," she said, her voice almost a whisper. "They handed it to your father, said it was confidential."
His father sat under the grapevine arbor, the letter already opened, a crease between his eyes that hadn't been there this morning.
"Read it," he said, handing it to Tariq.
The parchment was thick. Heavy. Scented faintly with rose and something else—oud, maybe. He read slowly, the words pulling at his breath:
> To the family of Tariq bin Aslan,
A woman of noble lineage, veiled by grief and wealth, has watched your son from afar.
She finds in him a quality rare in men: humility, strength, and loyalty.
She wishes to ask for his hand in marriage.
If accepted, the union shall be arranged in privacy.
No dowry is expected.
Only his consent.
Tariq looked up slowly. "Is this some joke?"
"A courier dressed like he served the palace brought it," his father replied. "It is no joke. They waited for an answer."
"Who is she?"
"They won't say," his mother said, stepping closer. "Only that she is a widow. Wealthy. And wishes for secrecy."
Tariq sat down, the weight of the letter pressing against his chest.
Marry a stranger? One who wouldn't even show her face? What kind of woman sends proposals through couriers?
And yet… the words in the letter. They hadn't praised his looks, or asked for his background. They spoke of things most people overlooked. Character. Loyalty. Humility.
He wasn't rich. He wasn't known. But someone, somewhere, had seen something in him.
"What if this is a trap?" he asked aloud.
"Then we pray," his father said. "But opportunities do not come dressed in certainty, son. Only the bold unwrap their future."
His mother knelt beside him. "You have always been the kind of man who waits for love to find him. Maybe it has."
Tariq looked down at the signature. There was none. Just a seal. A crimson veil stamped in wax.
He could walk away. Pretend it never came. And yet, something deep inside told him his life would never be the same after this night. And if he said no, he might always wonder what he turned away from.
He folded the letter with steady hands.
"Tell them I accept."
His parents exchanged a glance. Then nodded.
Far away, in a palace carved of stone and shadows, a woman removed her veil and placed the twin letter in a drawer. A single smile gr
aced her lips.
Zahra bint Az-Zubair had gotten her answer.
He had said yes.