Page 7

"I have something for you," he said, pushing the wrapped package across the table.

Arezoo's hand froze halfway to the muffin. "For me? Why? It's not my birthday."

He shrugged, but she could see the tension in his shoulders. "I saw this in a used bookstore and thought you might like it. It's nothing. Just a book."

"You shouldn't buy me gifts."

What did he expect in return?

"It's nothing. It just looked like something that you would enjoy."

A used book probably didn't cost much, and she loved books, so he was right about that, but she should still refuse it. Accepting gifts from a man she barely knew and who clearly had feelings for her that she couldn't return, wasn't wise.

But in the end, curiosity won, and she pulled the package closer, starting to unwrap it carefully.

"A book of Persian poetry." Arezoo's breath caught.

The leather binding was soft with age, and the pages were edged in gold. She opened it carefully, revealing pages of beautiful calligraphy with delicate illustrations in the margins. This wasn't some mass-produced volume—it was old, probably valuable, definitely special.

"Ruvon." She ran her fingers over a page. "This is beautiful."

"You like it?" The hope in his voice made her chest tight.

"It's the nicest gift anyone has ever given me." The words were out before she could stop them.

"That's music to my ears." Joy replaced his uncertainty.

She turned the pages slowly, drinking in the beautiful words. Her grandmother had owned a book similar to this, though not nearly as fine. She'd read from it in the evenings, her voice soft and melodious, bringing the words to life.

"Do you like poetry?" she asked, looking up at him.

Ruvon shifted in his seat. "I don't know if I like it or not. I've never really read any. I mean, in the Brotherhood, we didn't exactly have poetry readings. And after we escaped, I focused on learning useful things. Poetry might be beautiful, but it is not useful."

Arezoo felt a pang of sympathy.

She couldn't imagine growing up without the beauty of words, without stories and verses to soften the harsh edges of life.

"Would you like to hear one?" she asked on an impulse.

His eyes widened. "Please."

She flipped through the pages, looking for something appropriate. Not a love poem—definitely not that. Something else, something safer.

She found one about dreams and hope, about the resilience of the human spirit.

Her teardrop translator would mangle it, turning the music of the Persian language into functional but artless English.

Still, she wanted to share this piece of her culture with him, and that was the only option available to her.

Her English wasn't good enough to translate the words by herself and try to imbue them with music.

As she began to read, the words flowed like water, even though she could hear the translator's echo turning them into something else. The rhythm was lost, the rhyme scheme destroyed, but the meaning—hopefully—remained.

"In the garden of dreams, where hope takes root, the soul finds strength to bear its heavy load. Though storms may rage and darkness may dispute, the heart remembers light along the road."

She continued through three more stanzas, aware of Ruvon's complete attention. Leaning forward, his coffee forgotten, he looked into her eyes, his dark gaze never leaving her face.

When she finished, the silence between them felt charged.

"That was beautiful," he said. "Thank you."

Arezoo closed the book carefully, running her hand over the cover. She should give it back. It was too much, too valuable, too meaningful. But her fingers wouldn't let go.

"I shouldn't accept this," she said, not looking at him.

"Why not?"

"Because..." She struggled for words. "Because this is not just a used book. It's an expensive gift that I don't deserve."

"You deserve it," Ruvon said quietly. "You deserve beautiful things. You deserve to have someone think of you when they see something lovely. That's all this is—I saw it and thought of you."

Arezoo felt tears prick at her eyes and blinked them away.

"Now I owe you a gift," she said, trying to lighten the moment.

Ruvon shook his head. "You don't owe me anything. The look on your face when you opened that book, the joy in your eyes, that's the greatest gift I could ask for."

The words should have come across as cheesy, but his sincerity made them sound authentic, meaningful, and she believed him when he said her happiness was enough for him.

"My break is almost over." She took a sip of her coffee. "I wish I could stay longer, but I can't."

Another beautiful smile brightened his face. "Thank you for sitting with me and for reading to me."

Arezoo stood, cradling the book against her chest. "Thank you for this. I'll treasure it."

"I'm glad." He gathered his things but left her coffee and muffin on the table. "Those are yours. You barely touched them."

"I'll finish them behind the counter," she promised.

He nodded, shouldering his laptop bag. "Maybe... maybe sometime when you're not working, you could read me another poem?"

It wasn't quite asking for a date, but it was close, and Arezoo considered it.

"Maybe," she said, which was more than she'd thought she'd offer.

"If you have time to stop by the café tomorrow, I'll ask Wonder for a longer break.

" She forced a smile. "Hopefully, the place won't be as busy as it was today. "

He nodded, looking satisfied as if he'd won a bet with someone, or just with himself. "I'll be here."