"Shadows of Jasmine

Layla used to stand on the balcony of her old house every morning and inhaled the scent of jasmine that had climbed the stone wall and hung over her window like a fragrant curtain. She loved the stillness that came before the bustle of the day, that fleeting moment when light softly tiptoes across the cobbled alley of her old neighborhood.

But that day, the sunlight was not the only early visitor to the street. A strange man appeared, wearing a brown hat and dragging an old leather suitcase. He stopped in front of the house across from hers and stared long at the mulberry tree, as if he knew it well.

Layla kept her eyes on him and walked silently toward the door, her heart racing for unknown reasons. It felt as though this man had come to awaken something forgotten in the place… or within her.

As time went on, his presence became ingrained in her morning routine. He never spoke to her, but she would always see him there, staring at the mulberry tree or sitting on the stone steps, writing something in a small notebook. One evening, unable to contain her curiosity, she approached him and asked softly:

"Do you know this house?"

He looked at her with narrowed eyes and smiled as if he had finally found what he was searching for.

"I used to live here… many years ago. I came back looking for my mother’s shadow beneath the mulberry tree."

He said it as he bowed slightly, as if speaking to the ground itself.

Surprised, Layla asked, "Did you find the shadow?"

"I didn’t," he replied, "but I found the same scent, coming from your balcony."

Her breath became harder as she stopped speaking. She felt that he was just as much a part of this place as she was, and she had no idea why his words moved her. They talked for a long time. He told her about his childhood, about his mother who planted jasmine, and about his sudden departure due to reasons he didn’t care to explain.

Their conversations became daily and intimate, as if they had known each other for years, from that point on. Layla had lived alone since her father passed away, and this man, who introduced himself as Fares, seemed to fill a silent void she never dared acknowledge.

Fares informed her that he would be leaving one wet evening. "Why?" she asked, trying to hide her unease.

He looked toward the mulberry tree and said, "I came to make sure the memories still live, that my heart still beats… Now I know there’s another heart here beating with mine. But I’m a man with no roots."

He vanished that very same evening, leaving only a small notebook under the mulberry tree. When Layla opened it, she discovered that they had meticulously recorded every conversation. Between the pages was a simple sketch of her laughing on her balcony.

She smiled as she held the notebook, knowing that though he had gone, he had left something that would never leave.

Years passed. Layla began writing too, placing her notebooks under the mulberry tree, reading them aloud sometimes, as if Fares still sat on the stone steps, listening and smiling.

And whenever someone asked about those notebooks, she would laugh and say:

"These are the shadows of jasmine… for those who understand the language written by souls."