It’s 11:53 AM. Your phone is at 57%. Since the Internet went down, you’ve been keeping it on Low Power mode and using it mostly as a clock. There is a lull in the chaos outside. You and your mother spent the morning removing what was left on the wall—dusty photographs, your grandmother’s wedding thobe, a sword Baba had bought from Amman thirty years ago. Many of your family’s trinkets had fallen from their wall spaces during the bombardments, but the resilience of the remaining pieces almost made you proud. Still, you took them down and stored them with the rest, as if their location in the house would matter if a shell struck the roof. Your little brother is home from a school that doesn’t exist anymore, and he is crying. He suffers from a sinus infection, but there isn’t anything you or anyone else can do for him right now. Every hospital has been destroyed. You’ve felt helpless since the bombings started, feeling even guiltier that you chose to study art rather than medicine. What good are your hands when pens and keycaps are all they’ve known? 

For now, you hold your brother against you while your mother holds the both of you to her. Your mother hasn’t held you like this in, well, you realize you can’t remember the last time. Probably since Baba died. Yes, now you’re certain. You recall the coarseness of Mama’s mourning clothes against your face and Baba’s old Farid-al Atrash records serenading the family. God, you think, what you would give to hear Baba’s voice one more time. He could’ve made his own records, you suppose. If only he’d pursued music as passionately as he did butchery, perhaps you and Mama and your brother wouldn’t be in this tiny apartment, or the remnants of it. The music, his music, plays in your head, echoing, as though you’re in a grand Parisian theater, then stops. Your brother wails in pain. Your mother covers his mouth and strokes his hair, the closest thing to an antibiotic he can have right now. 

In the menacing silence between shells, you remember a story from your childhood. It’s archaic and silly and phallocentric, which is why you believe your brother might like it. Why Baba and Mama told you that one more than any others, you don’t understand. You had preferred television dramas and films more than the family’s folklore. You grew up with boys who thought they were Adnan, along with girls trying desperately to be Halima. You never fit in with either, but that doesn’t mean your brother won’t. You two couldn’t be more different, after all.

Mama, you say, how about a story? Maybe the one about the well and the grove? 

In the end, you know it won’t help take his mind off the inflamed glands in his face or the nearby explosions, but you’re positive it’s something your mother would think will help, which she does, and she agrees to recite the tale. Your brother has more of an imagination than you these days, but you listen to your mother anyway. 

“It goes like this.”

Outside the sprawling old city, fields and mountains decorated the eastern horizon. Olives, figs, apricots, oranges, and cherries sprouted from every tree. Poppies and lilies blossomed up to the ankle in each direction. The air felt crisp in the lung, and the sun warmed one’s skin without cruelty. Between the city and the wilderness stood an old house. The brick and clay walls were as strong as the day they were first raised, and its stone-arched windows still prevented the elements from trespassing. Two people lived there: a young woman named Ibtisam and her husband Fallah. Ibtisam’s ancestors had constructed the home, and her family had retained ownership of the property ever since. Fallah was a butcher’s son from a village on the other side of the mountains. As a young man, he and his father would travel from their village to Ibtisam’s home to trade, and it was during these exchanges that Fallah and Ibtisam grew fond of each other. After they married, Ibtisam and Fallah dedicated their lives to cultivating their family grounds. Fallah’s days were spent behind the house, as he favored the fragrance of the wilds. He raised chickens, lambs, cows, and horses. He grew grains and root vegetables in the gardens and gathered fruits from the trees at the foot of the mountains. Ibtisam thrived on the westward side of the house, the side facing the city. Every day she would ride or walk into town, bouncing from stall to stall in the bazaar, bartering with her husband’s daily yield. On the front steps of the house, she shaped reeds into baskets and chairs and tables. Ibtisam was also renowned for her tatreez, which she stitched into clothing as gifts for the townsfolk on special occasions. 

Just beyond their house was a trail running parallel to the distant city’s walls that led to a small grove. There, the grounds were enclosed within a cluster of curled acacia, myrtle, almond, and oak branches. At the center of the grove was a well belonging to Ibtisam’s family. Although the structure had an unassuming appearance, the well and its water were integral to their livelihood. Fallah drew out and hauled several gallons of water every day to nourish his animals and his crops. Ibtisam used the water to sustain the flowers, herbs, and vegetables around the house and along the windowsills. The water was everything to the family, though it had a price. For every drop of water taken from its depths, Ibtisam and Fallah’s lives were shortened. The cost for its nourishment was paid with the essences of their lives, though they took the water without complaint.

While there was still youthful vitality in their bodies and spirits, they bore their own fruit of the land, a son named Adnan. Naturally, Ibtisam and Fallah raised the boy equally as they carried out their duties. Fallah held the child against his chest as he gathered and reaped, and Ibtisam took Adnan into the city on her back. One part of each day was set aside to bring Adnan to the well and bathe him in its waters, usually when the light peaked at the center of the sky. The boy splashed happily in the tub his father had built for him. When this time was up, Adnan was reluctant to leave the water’s embrace but went away with his parents, as a child does.

It’s 1:27 PM. Your phone is at 55%. Your mother’s voice is interrupted. The ground beneath your feet, beneath the rug your Siti bartered for when your parents first married, beneath the remaining floor of your house, beneath the entire city, shakes every germ in your stomach. A symphony of mortars fell on one of the streets beyond your front door, though you don’t know exactly where. All you know for sure is that it was close. Shrapnel and debris crashes against your home, yet it is still standing. You leave your mother and brother, crawling against the tiled floor to assess the damage. It appears the rubble has trapped you inside. The window, or the frame where it once was, is suffocated by a wall of debris. Glass shards are scattered at your feet. You stand up carefully. There is a voice outside that you recognize. It’s your uncle, who is not really your uncle but a family-friend you have called Uncle since you could talk. Outside, debris sounds like it’s being torn away from the door, close to the window where you’re standing, and you hear other voices shouting orders alongside your uncle. Your mother uncovers your brother’s ears and speaks in a whisper, though you can still hear her picking up where she had left off.

By the time Adnan could walk and talk, his parents taught him their ways, dividing his days into halves. Early in the morning, Adnan arose with his father’s help and followed him outside. As the sun’s crown peaked over the mountaintop, Adnan held the bucket as Fallah milked the cows, or the basket while Fallah dropped fruits and vegetables and eggs into it, or his hands against his eyes when it was time for Fallah to slaughter a lamb. Once the sun reached its zenith, Adnan’s mother called out to him and Fallah, saying it was time to go. 

The three of them walked up the trail and into the grove. For the first time, Adnan walked up to the well on his own, but he couldn’t see within because it was taller than he was. Standing against his father’s leg, he eagerly watched him crank the handle. When the bucket reappeared, brimming with glass-clear water, Ibtisam wetted her hands and cleaned the dust and grime from Adnan’s face while Fallah prepared their tea.

After their rest, Ibtisam and Adnan bid Fallah farewell and followed the trail toward the old city. Carrying the spoils of her husband’s labor in the satchel draped across her back, Ibtisam kneeled and asked Adnan to remove the items in various quantities as she exchanged them with other tradesmen.

“We’re almost finished,” Ibtisam said to Adnan. “One more visit to Umm Hamza, then we shall return home.”

Adnan followed his mother the length of the city, darting between passersby without losing sight of her until they arrived at Umm Hamza’s store, where Ibtisam traded for the brass and leather she needed to make new sandals. 

“You wait here, habibi. I’ll be but a moment.”

Heeding his mother’s wish, Adnan sat patiently on the shop steps and looked out at the city. It was full of life, human life existing in its own harmony not unlike the creatures and plants he was accustomed to. There, he observed things he’d heard his parents speak of: people trying sweets at the maqhā. Young men and women reciting poetry before large crowds. Beautiful garments decorated with textiles and dyes from corners of the world his young mind couldn’t picture. There was so much to see, yet the sheer magnitude of the world’s vastness overwhelmed him. He wanted his mother to finish her errand quickly, so when the door behind him croaked on its hinges, Adnan’s head snapped around. 

“Oh, marhaba. It must be your mother who is speaking with mine. You look just like her.” 

The voice belonged to a young girl, maybe two years younger than Adnan. She spoke with the cadence and inflection of a shopkeeper’s daughter, someone who wasn’t shy to make conversation with anyone. She smiled down at Adnan on the steps, and he noticed a gap between her teeth that had the tip of a new growth sprouting from her gumline. She sat down next to him, which fragranced the air with sweet honey. 

“I overheard her saying that this is your first time coming to the city. Is that true?”

He nodded, unaccustomed to conversations with anyone other than his mother and father. Even looking in her direction made him nervous, yet he didn’t know why. 

“She’s very pretty,” the girl said. “Your mother. And very gifted. Her tatreez hangs in our home beside our door. Do you think she would teach me?” 

Adnan shrugged. He was about to respond but was interrupted by a group of men walking up the steps, passing between the two children as they made their way to the door. At the same time, Ibtisam emerged through the doorway. 

“Come, Adnan. We’re going home. Ah, Halima, I almost mistook you for someone else! Smallah alék, look at you, more beautiful than every young woman in the city!”

Adnan looked at her, at Halima, and discovered a truth within himself. Behind the shame and embarrassment, he felt adoration. He wanted to talk with her, to know her, but he couldn’t make his mouth form any words. Ibtisam took him by the hand and made him say goodbye to Halima. Adnan hesitated. 

“Don’t be shy, habibi. Here.” Ibtisam plucked a ripe apricot from her satchel, one that Adnan had helped his father pick from their tree earlier that morning. Understanding his mother’s gesture, he took the fruit and held it out to Halima with both hands, as though it were a candle at a vigil. 

“For you,” he said to her, finally revealing his ability to speak. Halima took the fruit from him, and he felt the shock of her fingers gently grazing his. 

“Shukran, Adnan. I hope to see you again soon.” 

“I hope so, too,” he said.

By the time the sun had nearly vanished, Ibtisam and Adnan were almost home. Upon entering the house, a gust of spice dominated the room. Fallah was setting the table with qidreh, hummus dressed with oil and sumac, and vegetables he’d harvested earlier. Afterward, Ibtisam and Fallah drank their nightly coffee while Adnan nipped at leftover sweets. As soon as the table was cleared, Ibtisam washed her son again before bed while Fallah stoked the fire to last until morning. 

Elated after his first day working with his parents, Adnan asked Ibtisam before she left his bedside, “What are we doing tomorrow, Mama?” 

Ibtisam smiled and ran her fingers through the thick knots on Adnan’s head. “We do it all again,” she replied before extinguishing the lantern on the table. 

Before sleep overtook him, Adnan thought about the well and the grove. There was a serenity that was different from anywhere he’d ever been. He didn’t have enough words in his vocabulary to describe what he was feeling. To him, the well and the grove felt like a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, protecting him from everything harmful and unpleasant. Meeting Halima made him feel similar. In time, sleep washed over him, and he dreamt of visiting the grove again. He arose the next morning upon his father calling him. Adnan set his sights on the wilds and the city, on the apricot trees and the stone walls of the well, and so it went for the earliest years of his childhood. 

It’s 12:04 AM. Your phone is at 48%. Your uncle, who is not really your uncle but a family friend you have called uncle since you could talk, has been working with other men to extract you, your mother, and your brother. It has taken a long time, as they’ve been forced to shelter whenever the sky darkened with rocket smoke. Outside, you hear the men thanking Allah, and you hear the tired hinges on the front door grunt. Your mother paused the story to prepare for your departure. You watch her pack picture frames, ancient cookie molds, icons of Christ and his mother, and other trinkets into a bag. You and your brother begin to do the same. 

While you’re shoving all the evidence of your existence into a backpack, your brother is pestering you to finish the story. 

Not right now, you tell him. 

I can’t die before I knows how it ends, he responds. 

We’re not going to die, you say, although you don’t know if that’s true. He won’t stop saying please, causing you to snap. The well has magic powers, and Halima and Adnan get married, you scream. Are you happy now? The story’s over! Now finish. We have to go. 

He punches you in the arm and curses you. He starts to cry and runs to find your mother. You watch him, then your eyes shift to his bed. He’s forgotten his bag, so you take it in your fist and carry it with yours. 

You, your mother, and brother leave with the men—including your uncle who is not really your uncle. Your mother is talking with the men, but your brother is tugging on her shirt. She shoos him away, then yells at you to be an older sister and watch him. Now, you are holding your brother against your hip as you move through the ruins of your life toward your uncle’s house. He is looking up at you with innocent eyes, eyes that seem to ask you why this is all happening. Before you lie, you ask him if he still wants to hear more of the story. He does, but Yuma is busy, you tell him, so the rest will have to wait. 

Why can’t you tell the rest, he asks. 

You suppose you can. You’ve never told it yourself since you’ve always been the listener. Before you begin, you realize how chalk-dry your throat is and desperately hope your uncle somehow has clean water at home.

Soon, Adnan became a young man with light whiskers on his upper lip. Fallah and Ibtisam were older as well. Because of their age, Adnan learned to shoulder more of his parents’ responsibilities. In the mornings, Fallah stood back and watched his son toil in the wilds, scything wheat and collecting eggs the way he’d instructed him. In the evenings, Adnan went into the city with his mother. Ibtisam stood by Adnan’s side as he knocked on watermelons or explained to merchants why their prices weren’t fair. Both Fallah and Ibtisam were proud of who Adnan was becoming.

The only difference in Adnan’s life was his relationship to the well. The mystery of its depths faded because he was tall enough to peer inside. Likewise, his excitement for mid-day baths had dissipated since he’d grown too big to fit in the tub. Adnan usually found himself alone in the grove. For him, hiking to the grove and carrying the well water to the house had become another part of his work routine, nothing more. In fact, he loathed the idea of going back and forth between his home and the well because the pails were heavy, and it wasted time when he could’ve been gardening or paying visits to Halima. Since he’d given her the apricot, their friendship had grown. Each visit to Umm Hamza’s shop with his mother allowed him to become more comfortable around her. It didn’t take long until Adnan began looking forward to seeing her. Their next conversation always continued longer than their last, and every visit he would sneak her a handful of apricots from his family’s tree while their parents conducted business. He thought she still looked beautiful with the juice and flesh from the fruit clinging to her lips.

On the night of Adnan’s first lamb slaughter, Ibtisam was clearing up the plates of bone and gristle when her son asked, “Yuma, why must I go all the way to the grove for water? Couldn’t Baba and I dig a well closer to the house?”

Ibtisam flicked away a wisp of light gray hair from her eyes and set her rag down. “You will have to one day, but now isn’t the time. Be strong. Do your duties as they are, not as you’d like them to be.”

“The handles rub the skin from my hands. My fingers are raw because the buckets are so heavy. If the well was closer, it would lessen the pain.” 

“Instead of griping,” she snapped, “open your heart to the water. It is sacred. Keep that in mind when you handle it. Then, maybe you will understand.”

Adnan felt humiliation stinging his chest like needles. He’d never heard his father complain about any of his ailments, though there were many. Fallah winced when there was too much weight on his left shoulder and grunted when he swung his axe. Ibtisam didn’t whine either, even though she traveled farther in a day than her son and husband combined. 

He noticed how her eyes gleamed in the candlelit room, defensive but meaningful as though she was speaking a hidden language through her stare. Adnan didn’t grasp what she meant, though he promised he’d try to understand. He kissed Ibtisam goodnight then started a fire with Fallah with the wood they’d chopped earlier. Once the flames managed to burn without aid, he bid him goodnight and prepared for bed.

As Adnan washed himself, he looked into the water longer than normal. The washroom was dim, but he could see his reflection shimmering in the bucket. His mother’s words resounded between his ears and encouraged him to focus. He only saw himself in the water at first, the dimness making the details on his face obscure. Then, seemingly from nowhere, a thick, liquid-metal darkness appeared in the bucket, a darkness like the dyes his mother made but with more viscosity. The form danced in the water, bending and swirling leaving trails of color in its wake as though it were a quill. It only took a moment until the bucket reflected other silhouettes around his original reflection. He recognized Fallah and Ibtisam beside him, but the other faces and shapes behind them were too small to see. Quickly, he snatched the lantern and held the light overhead. Everything other than his frantic reflection had vanished. His exhaustion was making him see things, he thought. He finished cleaning himself and poured the water out onto his mother’s geraniums below the window. Soon enough, he collapsed onto his straw-filled mattress, feeling soreness in every part of his body. 

Adnan woke earlier than the rooster and dressed for work. He’d dreamt about the well and the reflections he’d seen. Even as Fallah watched him pick mint and thyme from the gardens, Adnan couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened. His instincts told him that what he’d seen were not fantasies. He needed to conjure them once more to be sure—if only he knew how. 

When it was time for him to retrieve the daily water, he requested to go alone, to which Fallah agreed. Adnan raced up the trail, nearly tearing the straps from his sandals. Seeing the grove, it had seemed to transform once more. The scent of lavender and jasmine brightened the air, and there were grape leaves spiraling up the well toward the suspended bucket. The radiance seemed to have returned, or perhaps Adnan’s heart had been closed off from noticing it before. 

Adnan scurried to the well and set the buckets down beside it. He expected to see the same images from the night before. The cavern was too dark and deep, but he wanted to believe the images were floating somewhere in the water below, waiting to be seen. He lifted several different buckets out, and when he peered into each of them, only one bore his reflection. To his astonishment, the other reflections were his mother’s, his father’s, and other people he’d never met. Each bucket held something different in its waters, each scene moving at different paces at unknown points in time. The reflections were memories brought to life, vestiges bobbing gently in the ripples. Adnan watched them with awe as though he were looking through a window into a new world. 

Once more, he looked forward to his visits to the grove. The reflections varied, and rarely did he see the same one twice. Sometimes the water showed him a person, either wizened or vivacious. Sometimes it reflected landscapes, familiar views of his house but without the old city against the western skyline. Other times he saw plates of food, woven patterns, instruments, ornaments. Soon after his discovery, silver inscriptions materialized, curling around the border of each reflection like a wreath. The words were names and dates, each corresponding to the scenes it enclosed. The writing had the familiar viscidity of ink, much like the first time the metal-like liquid appeared in the wash bucket, yet he didn’t recognize the penmanship. He wondered if the silver writing belonged to the owner of these memories.

The well and its water had become the medium through which he learned about his family’s past. He determined that the unfamiliar faces and scenes he’d observed in the water must’ve been connected to his bloodline. Why else would they’ve appeared alongside his mother and father? Whenever he was in the grove, the feeling he’d had as a child, the blanket-like security around his shoulders, returned to him, and so it went for the rest of his young adulthood. 

It’s 8:03 AM. Your phone is at 41%. There is still no electricity, not even at your uncle who is not your uncle’s house. You slept well for the first night in weeks. Your brother is lying next to you. Forcing him to sleep wasn’t easy, but here he is, almost peacefully. You leave the room and sit with your aunt (not your real aunt but the wife of your family-friend uncle) and your mother. Your aunt is wearing her apron that you remember, the same one she’d always wear whenever she brought over her cooking. Her knafeh ensnared you from an early age, which might’ve led to the weight you’ve gained and can’t get rid of. Now, her apron pockets are empty, and the bottom has been torn away to make bandages. The rest of the family is relieved yours is alive. You ask where their oldest son is, the one who works for the press. She says he is out being a hero. You agree and think about him fondly.

Your aunt says she overheard someone at the relief tent where the maqhā used to be talking about her son, about how he has been documenting everything and uploading videos to social media. Your aunt says he has hundreds of thousands of followers supporting him online, sharing and reposting his videos all over. His siblings say that he has millions of followers. You think you want to be a hero too. You decide that you’ll film what’s happening outside on your phone, though you can’t tell anyone. 

It’s 11:22 PM. Your phone is at 36%. Everyone is asleep. Overlooking the city, you see lights in the distance, but there hasn’t been anything of note besides car alarms and voices in the streets. Your phone is ready for when something happens. With no sirens or explosions within earshot, the nightly breeze feels relatively tranquil. You can even see the stars above the smoldering city. It’s funny, you think, how only you would pick the wrong day for taking up freedom fighting. It has been the quietest night in months, and now you’re almost anticipating something to happen so your efforts, and your courage, aren’t wasted. You hear your father’s voice: What are you trying to prove, Raji? You gather your things, which feels like a defeat in itself. 

The door opens behind you. It’s your brother, wearing your coat that cloaks his entire body. 

You ask what he’s doing. 

He says he was worried when he couldn’t feel you near him. 

You needed some air, you say. 

He sits next to you. 

You tell him he shouldn’t be up here. 

He says he won’t leave without you. He’s stubborn like Baba was. 

You put your phone down to take his hands in yours. 

Your brother asks when you can go home. 

You don’t know. 

This doesn’t happen to Adnan, does it, he asks. 

No, it doesn’t. 

Why not? 

You pause for a moment. It’s just not part of his story, you say. Then, you pick up where you left off.

Time pressed on, and Adnan developed into a strong, bearded man. Everything fell to him, yet Fallah and Ibtisam, as frail as they had become, were still invested in the work done around the house. At dawn, Fallah and Ibtisam would sit in the chairs Adnan built for them and watch their son work in the wilds, and at dusk they would greet him by the front steps upon his return from the city.

“Adnan,” Fallah said one evening, “My back isn’t the same as it once was. I couldn’t carry the lamb you prepared.” 

All his life, Adnan had known his father to be stoic and proud, so he knew it was difficult for him to admit this defeat. Adnan set his mother’s weathered satchel on the table near the door and kissed the top of his father’s head. Then, he went out to roast the lamb. 

He was cleaning blood from the wooden table when Ibtisam approached him and placed a basket of loose dough at his forearm. “Adnan,” she said to her son, “my hands and feet are riddled with pain. I couldn’t stand to knead the bread or fashion the satchel you asked for.” 

Ibtisam had never denied her son, other than the time he asked to build a new well many years ago. Adnan didn’t want her to feel any guilt. He turned to Ibtisam and held her hands gently in his. “I’ll finish the dough, Mama, and don’t worry about the satchel. I will craft one tomorrow morning.” Ibtisam kissed his hands and left. 

As the lamb roasted, Adnan finished the dough and allowed it to rest. After it had risen, he baked the bread in the taboon. Fallah had built the old stone oven when Adnan was a boy, but its fires still roared with the vigor of youth. The nocturnal animals stirred in the tall grass beyond the shed as Adnan pulled the bread from the oven and removed the lamb from the grill. 

Adnan pressed his back into the door and opened it, prompting Fallah and Ibtisam to stand and help their son, but he waved them off. “Please, Mama, Baba. Rest. I’ll take care of this.”

Reluctantly, Fallah and Ibtisam watched as plates of food appeared in front of them. Ibtisam noticed that Adnan served dishes she hadn’t seen since she was a girl, particularly a platter stacked with what looked like her khalti’s sambousek bil jibneh. 

“Adnan, where did you learn to make these?” she asked, picking one of the flakey triangles up and inspecting it. 

Adnan grinned at his mother, who was wide-eyed in disbelief. “I don’t remember when exactly, but I had watched one of the bakers in the city make it. How does it taste?”

Fallah looked up from his plate, which was already half-eaten, and shared a delightful look with his wife. Ibtisam laughed and finished the pastry, every bite filled with memories from her childhood. “Yuma, it’s wonderful. This truly makes my heart sing.” 

Adnan felt guilty about lying to his parents, but the truth was more difficult to confess. He didn’t know if they could understand, or be willing to believe, that he’d learned from the water in the well. As he’d gotten older, the reflections were more real: these visions, a mosaic of his lineage, had become interwoven with his being as if he’d lived these experiences in a previous life. 

As he helped dress his mother and father for bed, he remembered how his mother had once said he’d understand the water if he opened his heart to it. Perhaps being present in the grove and learning about his family was what Ibtisam meant he’d eventually understand. Had his mother experienced this also? He needed to know. 

He wrapped his mother in her blanket, one that she’d made decades ago yet remained as colorful as when she dyed its yarn. Adnan knelt beside his mother at her bedside. 

“Mama, I must confess something to you. I’ve fetched the water from our well, as you and Baba taught me for many years, but now I find myself not wanting to leave. I learn so much from being there. It may sound strange but it’s as if a presence dwells on the grounds. The water teaches me things about myself, about our past, things that I couldn’t have learned on my own. Do you know what I am speaking of?”

Ibtisam held her son’s hand and gazed upon him in the moonlight. “It’s wise that you’ve decided to speak honestly with me. I know what you’ve seen and felt because I have experienced it too, as did my mother and grandfather. Our wells were different, but the water is the same. They have all dried up, yet we preserve the water elsewhere.”

“Our well will dry out? When? What am I supposed to do to stop it?”

Ibtisam kissed her son’s hand, which was cracked and calloused from years of labor. “You cannot stop it, habibi. Such is life, such is time. The well dries alongside those who’ve poured it. Your father and I have known this. You haven’t noticed, but we age faster than others. We are connected to the water, like you. You asked me as a boy if you could build a new one, remember? You have my permission to do so. Tomorrow morning, you must begin. Our moments are limited. Your other responsibilities can wait because, without the water, without our water, we will cease to be. When it is done, bring me with you to the old grove. You and I will carry the water together to your new well.”

Adnan went to work while the morning sky was still black. First, he decided to dig the well on the side of the house facing the trail to the grove. He then laid a stone path from the house to the well, and on either side of the hole he planted lilies and other flowers. He worked tirelessly, yet the process took several days. Upon completion, he found his mother outside in the sun, sipping her coffee and admiring the view of the city. The two of them climbed onto Adnan’s horse and trotted to the old grove. There, she watched Adnan extract the water and, after spilling some over the sides on the ride down the trail, stood by him as he poured it down the new well. 

“I don’t think one bucket is enough,” Adnan said once the water settled at the bottom.

“It’s plenty. I promise.”

Since he’d constructed the new well, he often ventured up to the old grove for much needed rest. He would sit against the well, drinking and watching the water as it continued to yield new scenes. These reflections seemed to slip into his mind as memories that didn’t obstruct his own, as though his ancestors existed in a separate room in his mind. The water looked and tasted like water, but as he consumed it, it was as though he could feel the new seeds of his identity blossoming. What he couldn’t determine was whether those seeds were already sewn into his soul. It was possible, and the water simply helped them grow. 

It’s 5:01 AM. Your phone is at 29%. You and your brother haven’t slept. The two of you are sitting with some of your relatives inside. Your mother is awake, kisses the both of you, and asks what you’re whispering about. You tell her where you are in the story, and you watch her excitement transform her expression.

Eagerly, she tells you that she will pick up from here. 

Good, you think. Anything to rid yourself of this part of the story.

Your mother clears her throat to speak, and although she doesn’t ask you to stay, you’re curious to hear her telling of it. 

The responsibilities of the house and the well became too much for Adnan to bear by himself. His parents were enjoying the twilight of their lives together. He needed someone to help him, someone he could start a family with. It was time for him to venture to the far side of the city and ask for Halima’s hand. 

Adnan told his parents what his intentions were with Halima. With their blessing, the three of them rode into town, through the bazaar and its vendors, until they reached Umm Hamza’s house. It was such a great distance from Adnan’s house that it could have been the opposite side of the world for all he knew, yet it didn’t matter. After a few knocks, Halima opened the door and smiled at him. She was wearing an embroidered and jeweled thobe that his mother had made for her when she came of age. Adnan entered the home, followed by his parents, who greeted Halima’s mother and father warmly as if they’d known one another for decades. Soon, all of them  gathered in the front room, having coffee and telling stories. By the time Adnan returned home with his parents, the three of them were happily discussing wedding preparations. 

The sun and moon cycled several times before the ceremony took place. Adnan and Halima decided to wed in the old grove. As her family and his gathered, Adnan realized that it was the first time anyone outside his family had been there. 

“This place is heavenly. I wish my mother had allowed me to visit here with you just once,” Halima whispered to Adnan. They were joined side-by-side before the priest who, in lieu of an altar and table, guided the crowned couple around the well as tradition dictated.

“This place, and everything from here to the house, is yours now, and we’ll make our own grove around our well, just like this,” Adnan responded.

When the celebrations ended and everyone returned home, the newlyweds cleaned themselves, preparing to consummate their marriage. Halima, adorned in a hand-stitched silk gown, one of the last items Ibtisam had made, stopped her husband from removing it by placing a hand on his chest. 

“I must show you something first. I’ve been saving it for tonight,” she said. Halima glided across the room before returning to him with a box. From what Adnan could see, it was expertly crafted from olive wood with pearl embedded in the grain.

Adnan lifted the lid and saw a collection of seeds, cleaned of any flesh. He immediately knew what they were. Before the words left his mouth, his wife said them first. 

“Apricots,” she whispered, “from your visits. I couldn’t save every seed, just the ones I thought tasted the sweetest. Tomorrow, we’ll plant them in our new grove, all around the well. As we grow and bear fruit, they will do the same.”

Taking one of the small seeds between his fingers and studying it, Adnan smiled at his wife. “At first light tomorrow, we will bury these in the soil. You are a queen among men, ya rouhi.” He put the seed back into the box and pulled Halima against him. They fell back onto his bed and, as the moon traveled across the sky, they laughed and groaned into each other’s bodies, careful to not awaken Adnan’s parents.

The morning sky had the brightness of grapes on the vine, purple and glistening against the mountaintops. Halima rose before her husband. She dressed herself and gently roused Adnan from his slumber. Soon after, the pair made their way outside and began their gardening. Adnan used his trowel to pull away the ground while Halima shadowed him, depositing one seed into each hole. Once the holes were covered, the two of them alternated pouring water from the well over the seeds to give themselves equally to the land. 

The sun crept closer to the center of the sky, and Adnan showed Halima how he’d taken care of the land since he was a boy. He showed her what he did in the wilds, but before he could explain his mother’s responsibilities, she pressed a finger to his lips. 

“Have you forgotten how we met? I was born in the city and have learned every crack in its stones. I will manage, my love. Do not worry.” 

Adnan agreed. He handled his livestock and his crops while Halima went into the city with his yield and visited her family. The sun quickly transformed into the moon, and the two found themselves lying together as a married couple. Halima lifted herself on one elbow and turned to her husband. 

“And what will we do tomorrow, I wonder,” she said in jest. 

Adnan propped himself up next to her and wrapped her in his arms. “We do it all over again, but there’s something I’ve forgotten to tell you. At mid-day, we will meet in our grove and rest. I cannot endure without being in your presence.”

Halima looked at him with adoring eyes. “That sounds lovely, but you should’ve told me earlier. I could have prepared some sweets for tea.” 

In the same way that she’d done to him, Adnan pressed a finger to her lips. “Have you forgotten how we met? I was born in this house and learned my family’s ways. I already made the cookies for tomorrow while you were away. Don’t worry.”

The sun soon arrived, and at the midpoint of their work, they found each other at their new well. Since the grove hadn’t grown yet, Adnan fashioned a blanket atop the well to create shade, pulled the blanket taught to the ground, and secured it with two stakes. He had brought the ghraybeh and tea, and Halima surprised him with a gold necklace from the bazaar. She put it around his neck as he drew water for the tea. 

While he prepared a fire, Halima went to wash her face and hands. For the first time, he was alone at his well. At that moment he was reminded that he hadn’t visited the old well or the grove since his wedding. He set his eyes over the bucket and saw nothing unusual. There weren’t any reflections in the bucket, nor were there silver wisps of language. The water was from the same source, yet he couldn’t understand why it didn’t produce scenes. Even as he tasted it, he discerned that it was regular water. Before he could investigate further, he heard the door open and decided to continue making the tea. 

Adnan and Halima finished resting and felt rejuvenated. He took down the blanket while she took the plates and cups inside. When they were ready to depart, they kissed each other and went off in separate directions. The night arrived, then the morning, and so it went for the rest of their peaceful, fulfilling lives. 

The end.

It’s 9:55 AM. Your phone is at 18%. God, you think, how you’d forgotten how much you hated Halima. Your mother constantly changed Halima’s character over the years, depending on your age. Who knows what her original story was. It has been lost with every revision your mother has made. To her credit, it was a clever way to burden a fictional woman with modeling her ideal femininity and wifehood. You suppose that, since the last time you heard this story was your coming-of-age, Halima’s most recent iteration is a young, docile wife. You guess that your mother hasn’t found the need to change her since, well, since maybe this is where she believes a woman’s story ends. What is your brother supposed to think about Halima? She probably excites him and puts the idea of possession in his mind. You aren’t sure when you realized what your mother was doing with Halima, but it made you take more of an interest in writing stories. Ironically, the more invested you became in art and academia, the further you drifted from Halima’s archetype. You always wanted to be more like Adnan, anyway. 

As a teenager, it excited you knowing that your mother didn’t agree with your career path, but Baba wouldn’t hear it because at least he believed in you. Now, those trivial, emotional victories and acts of defiance don’t matter at all when your family is all you have left.

It’s 11:26 PM. Your phone is at 4%. These past few days, you’ve taken to the roof like an owl, perched in your nest, watching the animal kingdom through the camera lens on your phone. One of the relief tents nearby had Internet for a little more than a day before the generator crashed. In that time, you posted your recordings, but they haven’t gained as much traction as you’d thought. Some posts circulate, but only after your family friend’s son in the press reposts them. Many of the comments and messages you receive are from men. They demand to see what you look like and ask if you’re really a woman, suggesting that you would get more attention if your profile picture weren’t an anonymous grey egg. Some men have offered money for your evacuation in exchange for pictures of your feet and armpits. You should’ve used a nom de plume, you thought, while sifting through messages. Fittingly, your phone died as you read the following direct message: U fucking shit don’t u know this is what u deserve hope ur next you ugly cunt die bitch like the dog u r. With that, your phone descended into darkness, and you were left staring at your reflection in the black screen.

You don’t know what time it is. Your phone has been dead for what seems like hours, or maybe months. You assume it’s sometime either deep into the night or in the early morning because it’s quite black, yet the continuous light from rocket fuel sometimes looks like a rising sun. What you do know is that when the sun does show itself, you’ll see that everything is gone. The city is an urn filled with the smoke and ashen particles of your life that can never be resuscitated. You and your family have been living in tents on the outskirts for some time. Your mother has put you in charge of your brother while she, your aunt, and other women use their collective effort to feed as many people as possible. Your brother’s sinuses have been clearing since he started on the donated antibiotics. Now, he has energy and wants to play football. 

There isn’t any grass left, you remind him. 

We can play in the street, he parries.

Not right now, you say. 

Why, he asks.

Because I said so. 

Then, he says, finish the story. 

How many times do I have to say it? It’s over, Mama and I told you the whole thing.

I hate it, he says, it isn’t real life. 

That’s what makes it a story, you say. 

Then add more to it, he responds. The story can’t end there. You want to be a writer, Rajiya, so write something new for once. 

You’re surprised to hear him speak to you that way, as though he is Kais Nashef, but you understand him. He apologizes, but you tell him to forget it. We’re all scared and tired. He is right, and you know it. Everyone could be vaporized in an instant. No more hiding. You tell yourself yes, you are good enough. 

Your younger cousins, the ones who are too young to contribute to their survival in any meaningful way, ask if they can also listen. Your brother tells them they’ve missed too much of the story and wouldn’t get it, but you tell them to come anyway. The four of them sit at your feet with their eyes directed up at you. Their faces are like those of scared soldiers. One of them has a large bruise on his left temple where something hit him during a blast. It could’ve been anything. Not that it matters, but if someone were to ask how you had gotten your scars, maybe having a definite answer seems more noble or like you haven’t anything to hide. 

It takes time to think of a new ending to a story you know so well. But time isn’t a luxury you’ve been afforded lately…or perhaps you have since, after all, you’re still here. As you think of a new ending, the sirens outside your tent start screaming. Your mother comes to get you and your brother. She is hysterical, but all you can derive from her mumbling is that she loves you, Rajiya, she loves you with every part of her. Your brother, too, and Baba, rest his soul. Baba, you miss him dearly. You yearn for his protection, though you would welcome a reunion. Don’t think that way, you tell yourself. You remember Baba. Remember what he used to say?

Raji, tell me a story, but tell it your way.

I can’t remember all the words, you cried. 

If I wanted it how they wrote it, I would read it instead. But I cannot read, so be the translator. 

You can feel his rough hands on your head. 

Rajiya, little bird, you have the biggest wings, yet you hesitate to fly. And if the wind knocks you over the edge of our nest, what then? 

The ending, you’ve finally thought of it. The ground is shaking. The sirens muffle your mother’s wailing. Then it hits.

Adnan was an older man with a thick grey beard that fell to his sternum. His right knee was in constant pain, forcing him to walk with a cane. Other than the young, fruitful grove, the house was unchanged as well as the land around it. Over the years, the apricot trees and flowers had blossomed taller than the roof. Every few days he and his wife harvested their apricots and reminisced about the seeds they had planted. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since then, yet their bond had only grown stronger as their family, like the grove, continued to grow. He was a father, so he and Halima would take their daughter Jamila to the new grove to bathe her.

Until he became dependent on a walking stick, the pace of Adnan’s life was dictated by his labor. He knew the moment would arrive when he couldn’t move like a young man anymore, but it came sooner than he would’ve liked. It happened shortly after Jamila’s birth. He’d felt a stiffness in his knees and shoulders after hoisting a few full buckets from the new well. Contemplating his age, Adnan had thought about Fallah and Ibtisam, how as a young man he’d taken up their obligations. The two of them had worked hard, sacrificing their bodies for the betterment of their land. Sitting still was difficult for Adnan, even as an older man. 

In his restlessness, Adnan had the urge to visit the old well and the grove, the one from his childhood. It was soon after he’d started walking with his cane that Adnan trudged up the trail into the grove. All the trees were coated with an autumnal glaze. The fruits he’d known them to bear were missing from their branches. The once verdant grove appeared as if one spark could set it ablaze. Adnan limped closer and noticed the trees themselves looked exhausted, as though the weight of each leaf on their arms was unbearable. 

The jasmine and lavender around the well were reduced to withered stems. The well itself was covered in moss, and at the bottom of the hole was a deposit of gravel and sand. It was as his mother had warned him years ago. With Ibtisam’s and Fallah’s passing, so too had the well gone dry. With his time spread between raising his daughter, loving his wife, and working around the house, there wasn’t any light left for visiting the old well and the grove. He felt as if he’d missed a relative before a one-way journey, and all he had to console himself were the few items they’d left behind. 

Since then, Adnan spent most of the daylight in the timeworn grove. Sometimes Halima accompanied him, but he often rested there by himself. One evening, when the stars perforated the sky, Halima walked up the trail with Jamila in her arms and found her husband sitting in his usual spot. He posed with both hands atop his cane, one leg crossed over the other. She was always curious why he would take the arduous journey here when the well and the grove they’d grown together was more luscious and just as peaceful. True, it was where they held their wedding, but that was long ago. They’d cultivated plenty of their own memories at their grove, the place where they began their lives as one. 

She put her hand on Adnan’s shoulder, stirring him from a light sleep. “Dinner is almost ready. We should go before it gets too dark.”

Adnan slowly stood and guided his cane down the trail. The evening was calm, but he could hear distant music playing in the city. Someone had cause for celebration, which pleased him greatly. 

As the ground crunched beneath their sandals, Halima wished to dispel the silence as well as her own curiosity. “It isn’t good for your knee to travel without a horse, you know. I worry about you.” 

“There’s no need to worry. I’m stronger than I look,” he said. 

“I wonder what this place has that our grove lacks. Why come all this way for this?”

Adnan sighed. It was time for her to know. “Let us go to our well. There’s something I must tell you.” 

When the three of them could see the house in the distance, the music seemed to have gotten louder. The closer they came, the clearer they heard the echo of the cymbals and strings and drums. Adnan followed his wife and daughter into their grove. At its entrance, the trellis he’d fashioned was overgrown with grape leaves, cascading overhead and down its sides like a green waterfall. Around them were dozens of thick-trunked apricot trees with branches so full of fruit that they sagged toward the ground. Once within the grove, the music completely disappeared, leaving the family in silence. Adnan lit the lantern on the table while Halima rocked Jamila to sleep. Looking at his daughter, Adnan recognized parts of himself and Halima in her features.

“Ya hayati,” Adnan said to attract Halima’s attention, “when I was a boy, I complained to my mother about the distance of the well from our house. I despised having to walk all the way up the trail only to descend with nearly twice my weight in water. Every day, I did this. One night she told me I had to learn to appreciate the well and the grove. She said I needed to open my heart. I listened to her advice and things changed. The water then began to display extraordinary scenes, stories about our past, about people whose names I’d never heard, the preparation of foods that hadn’t touched my lips. The water in that well carried the spirit of my people, and now that water is here for her,” Adnan gestured to Jamila with his cane.

He spoke softly, conscious to not disturb Jamila’s slumber. Fireflies blinked in the darkness beyond the lantern’s reach. It had been years since the two of them were out this late to see them.

“What will she see when she is old enough?” Halima asked. 

“She’ll see us and those before us,” Adnan said. “When I look back on my life, I understand the nature of my family’s work and our devotion to the land. We plant pieces of ourselves into the ground and nurture them until they bloom for the next generation. Without wells to quench their thirst and groves to keep them shaded, our children will never know where they came from.” 

He was fixed on his daughter in Halima’s arms. Jamila usually put up a fight before sleeping. Maybe she takes after her father in that way, always eager to move, Adnan thought. Once sleep took hold of her, though, her eyes wouldn’t open until the morning sun kissed her eyelids. In the lantern’s soft glow, Adnan studied her details. The few clumps of hair on her scalp, the sweet whistling sound she made when she breathed. He noticed how her little fists were balled and tucked against her chest. It made him think of how, as a boy, his hands would blister from hauling the buckets to and from the well.

“Look at her hands, Halima,” he said. “They are immaculate. It is difficult for me to accept that they’ll be covered in dirt, or that she’ll have to experience pain. Her palms may bruise, cuts drawn across her fingers, or perhaps her joints may inflame and stiffen as my mother’s did. Our labor is strenuous, but its bounties are necessary. Our daughter will bestow her hands upon the land, and because of her, we shall live forever.”

An apricot fell and rolled against the well’s bottommost stones. Neither Adnan nor Halima had heard it thud against the grass. The palm-sized fruit was perfectly ripe and possessed the color of amber. It rested against the well while the grove rustled in the wind, like a child’s head cushioned against her mother while her father spoke softly of things she’d eventually learn to understand.

It is morning. You know this because you’re watching a glorious sun rise against a painted sky. Your brother and your cousins are curled around you, sleeping blissfully. Your phone is at 1% and charging.