"Will you buy the damned ticket or do I have to look at your stupid face for hours?"

Taking a leap of faith was the hardest step when you had never dared to push beyond your limits.

Anxiety burned slowly through her blood as her eyes focused back on the man.

Sitting near a wooden table, golden locks falling over his wrinkled forehead, a nose crooked to the left, the man gauged the young woman.

Ayyur stood there, her eyes coming back to reality, her hand nervously gripping the cloth filled with vegetables she had bought just earlier.

They called him Carlos the Rough.

Her father always told her to never come closer to him, a crook who spent many nights in the governor's cells and still, always found his way back to the market. People liked to treat Carlos like a bug, spreading rumours that he smuggled illegal and dangerous things, yet they would run to him, searching for the same illegal and dangerous things they liked to criticise.

"Could.." She cleared her throat, her brows furrowing together as she tried to speak with more confidence; merchants were, as always. Terribly loud.

"Could I have more time to think about it, I.."

"Time I don't have," Carlos sneered. "Boat's leaving in three days, woman."

"Ayyur." She said firmly, her chin lifting slightly as her eyes landed in his.

Scratching his double chin with nails caked with dirt and maybe a tad of blood, Carlos looked at the young woman, one brow lifting with amusement. One step taken towards him, she leaned over the wooden table.

"My name is Ayyur. Ayyur Bent Walid Ibn Tariq. Not woman."

Carlos laughed.

Hard and loud. Just like him. He leaned closer to her face, yellow teeth showing as his lips stretched, his blue eyes shining with a dangerous light.

"What an interesting germ you are, senora... Three days, the boat's leaving."

Ayyur, sweet Ayyur,

Through your eyes, only love and adventures,

Ayyur, sweet Ayyur,

Please be safe and come back to me.

Soaked in the olive oil she bought in the old streets, tomatoes grilled very slowly, a soft whimper left her chapped lips.

The tiles needed extra cleaning.

With a towel, Ayyur practised the same gesture as she had for years. Wiping in a circle, the young woman always took her time as she gazed at her father's beautiful work. A beautiful wall made out of the most expensive zellij, a handcrafted and elaborate geometric mosaic made out of clay, a beautiful result of the Fazziyan heritage mixed with the Grana one. Just like me. Ayyur had always felt a small tingle of envy towards her father, a man who seemed to be good at everything.

Ayyur was many things.

Kind, soft, respectful and the eldest daughter.

Hearing the worried words of her mother behind the bedroom's door, searching for solutions as anxiety climbed her lungs and compressed her heart into terrifying beats. Dum. Dum. Dum. It was agonising for Ayyur. Seeing Fadhma's tired smile and her waving hand as the young girl tried to understand what plagued her mother's thoughts.

Ayyur was seventeen when Fadhma, her mother died.

Seventeen, new bangles around the wrists that clicked together every time Ayyur ran through the small alleys of the Bayzin neighbourhood located on top of the hill. Narrow streets where white houses faced each other, birds singing near the windows and lovers giggling hidden in the dark corners. Nuzha, her cousin had arranged to meet her at the bottom of the hill, new clothes coming from the other side of the shore and the young girl wouldn't want to miss it for the world.

Once a month, the two girls were given an allowance to spend on whatever they liked. Pretty clothes were the first choice for Nuzha, an eighteen-year-old girl who knew the importance of appearance in their society.

"You don't understand Ayyur," She would say with the tone of a girl who knew everything about life. "What we are wearing.. It's outdated. Last time, Jaida made fun of me. She said that I look like a Fazziyan peasant."

"I would rather look like a Fazziyan peasant than spend endless dirhams on something we are going to outgrow. Ukh."

Rolling her eyes in annoyance, Ayyur kept her hands behind her back. At that age, Ayyur wasn't truly interested in clothes. She believed it best to spend her money on golden bangles. I can sell them, have more money in my hands and buy more cakes. Ayyur was many things, but not someone who would accept disrespect toward her own kin.

The young girl grabbed Nuzha's hands and with a devilish smile, Ayyur murmured. "Don't worry, 'Zha. Next time I see her, I will give her tea mixed with my spit. By Anzar, I will get revenge on our names."

The two girls laughed cruelly before running down to the market, where Nuzha would spend her allowance on clothes and Ayyur would feed her belly the most delicious food she could find.

Ayyur was seventeen when her mother died.

Sensible and stubborn Fadhma who left her oasis to follow her husband to another city so far from what she knew, so far from her ksour. Kind and amusing Fadhma with black dots adorning her chin and straight lines on her hands almost turning to grey. Fadhma, who loved her daughters more than anything, could only murmur broken apologies to a crying Ayyur.

"Babak.. Bab...."

Because Fadhma knew,

The curse she had just put her daughter through. A curse so poisonous it would follow Ayyur her whole life, crippling her existence to the point she couldn't breathe without feeling the urge to erase herself so she could take care of her family. Babak.

From that day on, Ayyur never stopped.

Chores, running errands, making sure her father was still alive even after losing the love of his soul. On her knees, her finger under his nostrils, dark circles under her long and thick black lashes, Ayyur stopped breathing.

He snored.

And Ayyur collapsed on the ground next to her father.

Ayyur sweet Ayyur

Little lamb, don't you see me,

Ayyur, sweet Ayyur,

Please be safe and come back to me.

When she turned around, the tomatoes were already burning. She couldn't do anything but stare, feeling the anger pouring into her already boiling blood. Hands moving to her tired face, Ayyur turned around and stomped outside the kitchen.

"Loubna!" She howled. "Titrit!" She screamed louder as she walked through the enormous corridors, empty of a mother's warmth.

Not a single answer. Of course.

Ayyur pushed the door of the living room located upstairs. It used to be their late mother's favourite spot. Fadhma would sit on the ground, Ayyur between her legs, a soft song leaving her lips as she wrapped her hands in henna. Ayyur, Ayyur.. Sweet Ayyur.. Your heart is as precious as Anzar's tears.

Fadhma loved singing. She always sang in the Iffeyiyan language, different from what they used in Grana. A beautiful language that Ayyur bitterly regretted not learning when Fadhma was no more here to murmur the beautiful words of adoration and love.

"Loubna," Ayyur walked through the living room. Her sister was leaning against the window, one hand under her chin and love in her eyes. "Loubna!"

Ayyur yelled louder but the young one wasn't listening. Loubna was too busy looking at the young man standing in the streets.

"So pretty.." She whispered, not knowing her older sister was coming up behind her and grabbing her by the hair.

Ayyur yanked her youngest sister to the ground before taking her place and throwing a glance outside. The young man standing there immediately blushed, then ran down the stairs, escaping the warmth of an angry eldest sister.

"Are you crazy?!" Loubna howled, holding her hair.

"Adam?" Ayyur said, disgusted, as she turned to look at her little sister. "Adam that scoundrel?! Have you no shame? He was getting married two weeks ago!"

"But he loves me! And he's no scoundrel!

Ayyur searched for a new weapon. She scanned the living room but before she could reach for it, Loubna threw at her the heavy pillow her father liked to nuzzle against.

"You're just jealous because his brother rejected you!"

"He rejected me?" Ayyur scoffed, not believing what she was hearing. She took a step closer to her sister, her heart beating fast. "He rejected me?!"

"W..well.." Loubna gulped, starting to run to the other side of the room. "Adam is no scoundrel!"

"He is a scound–" Ayyur shook her hands because she wasn't here for this actually. "Why didn't you clean the kitchen?"

"Why would I? Titrit is here also!"

"Loubna, I have no time for this. I can't deal with the cleaning, going to the market, taking care of the meals, making sure Baba's eating. I can't do all of this!"

"But nobody asked you to do so."

Ayyur felt her eyes burning with a sudden frustration heating into a painful ache gripping at her sternum. She wanted to speak, to express the anger begging to burst in her stomach but Ayyur was at a loss for words.

No, it was the terrible realisation of not being cared for enough for someone to act without her begging for at least one little second of help.

Ayyur laughed.

A tired and cold laugh filled the living room. She wasn't looking at Loubna anymore, her hand moving to push the thick hair falling over her eyes. The sound of her heartbeat was almost too much in her ears, her palms sweaty and Ayyur closed her eyes before realising what she always refused to believe.

You've forgotten yourself for people who don't see everything you've done.

That night, Ayyur didn't cook.

Ayyur looked at her ingredients, her knives, and the empty utensils waiting for her to use before grabbing her bag, her late mother's haik around her face, descending the alley of stairs with her heart heavy with sadness.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

First chapter finished! So I am half satisfied, half wanting to delete and everything again. (I have 12 version of this chapter). I reminded myself that this project is for me to not be a perfectionist and to simply post, to learn through your advices and if you like the story, then I am happy.

A small introduction to Ayyur, please tell me what do you think!!! Don't forget to vote and comment and please please TELL ME WHAT DO YOU THINK