The farm buzzed like a beehive.
Tables were dragged from barns, covered in white linen and wildflowers. Ribbons hung from fence posts. Fresh bread baked in Nana Salma's oven filled the air with a sweetness no bouquet could match.
They were getting married.
Not in a hall. Not in a city. But right here—under the old olive tree, where it all began.
---
The guest list was short but perfect. Friends from the village. A couple of Nael's closest travel buddies who showed up dusty and wide-eyed, already in love with the place Farah called home.
Jiddo Omar wore his best vest, though he grumbled that he was "only dressing up for the olives." Nana Salma cried quietly into her scarf as she placed mint leaves into the lemonade jars.
And Nael?
He waited beneath the olive tree, nervous in a linen shirt, his eyes scanning the orchard path.
Then she appeared.
Farah.
In a simple white dress, bare feet, hair braided with sprigs of lavender.
Nael forgot how to breathe.
She walked straight to him, no music, no fanfare—just sunlight and soft smiles and everything real.
"You came," he whispered.
"I was always here," she said.
---
The ceremony was short and full of heart. The vows were their own:
"I promise to leave the gate open for your wild," Farah said, her voice shaking.
"I promise to always come back to your roots," Nael replied, eyes glassy.
They planted a fig tree beside the olive as part of the ceremony.
"Something for the next generation," Jiddo said, proud and pretending not to cry.
---
Later, as the stars blinked awake, and laughter filled the yard, Nael pulled Farah aside.
"Did you ever imagine this?"
She shook her head. "But it feels like it was always waiting."
They danced under fairy lights and moonlight, the goats bleating somewhere in the distance like background singers.
And when the last candle flickered low, Nael whispered, "Let's get lost tomorrow."
Farah smiled. "Only if we come back the day after."
---
Because some adventures don't begin with a passport.
Some begin with a promise, under a tree