by Percy
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In the old alley of Al-Marasi, where stone houses leaned against each other as if whispering the secrets of time, stood Al-Atiq, the antique shop of Salem bin Mansour. Salem was never a merchant by nature; he had once been a librarian who inherited from his father an old obsession with silence and time.
After his father’s death, Salem found himself trapped in a narrow space filled with the scent of ancient incense, the mustiness of worn leather, and the dust of three decades of indifference. The shop, to him, was less a source of livelihood and more a beautiful tomb for memory.
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One scorching afternoon in September, as the coastal sun struck the city walls at a harsh angle, Salem decided to fulfill the promise he had made to himself months ago: to clean the back shelves. Those shelves formed a dark wooden wall, packed with seemingly worthless objects—rusty typewriters, cracked plaster statues, and an endless assortment of chipped ceramic dishes.
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He moved toward the forgotten corner, where cobwebs had grown thick as a palm. He pushed against a long wooden shelf that hadn’t shifted in years, leaning on it with all his strength. The dry wood creaked in protest, and dust scattered like fog. As Salem caught his breath, overwhelmed by effort and the earthy smell, he noticed something he’d never seen before: behind the shelf was an unexpected hollow in the stone wall.
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It wasn’t just a recess—it was a narrow opening, covered by a small wooden door barely a meter high. The door was made of dark ebony and inlaid with delicate mother-of-pearl patterns of intertwining plants—craftsmanship that no longer existed in modern times. His father had never mentioned such a door. Salem’s heartbeat quickened—not from fear, but from a deep, irresistible curiosity, the kind that awakens when one uncovers a piece of personal history left unwritten.
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He slipped his finger into the crack and tried to pull. There was no lock, yet time and humidity had sealed it shut. After several attempts—and with the help of an old brass handle he used as a lever—the door suddenly gave way with a soft, muted snap, as though something ancient had just been released.
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Behind it, there was no tunnel or passage—only a wooden chest. It was large, carved seemingly from a single tree trunk, far older in style than the shop itself. It wasn’t locked with a key, only wrapped with a wide strip of leather, which crumbled into dust at his touch.
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Salem raised his phone’s flashlight and shone it inside. To his surprise, there were no treasures—no gold coins or sparkling jewels. The chest appeared empty except for one thing in the corner: a piece of pottery.
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It was a small ceramic plate, no more than twenty centimeters across. It wasn’t glossy or colorful, but rather matte—an ivory white with a strange depth to it, as if it absorbed light instead of reflecting it.
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What truly made it remarkable was the engraving. The design wasn’t painted or printed; it was part of the clay itself. A lone tree, its roots entwined around the base, its branches stretching to the edge of the dish. But the branches ended not in fruit—but in hollow circles, diminishing in size toward the rim.
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Salem lifted the plate. It was unnaturally cold, even in the heat of midday. The moment his fingers touched the smooth ceramic surface, he felt a faint vibration—like the dish had exhaled softly. Then he heard it: a whisper.
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It wasn’t in his mind, yet it didn’t come from the air either. It was delicate—like the rustle of fine sand or the far-off sigh of wind. Salem couldn’t make out words, but he knew the sound wasn’t from anywhere in the silent, crowded shop. It came from the plate itself.
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He dropped it quickly to the floor, his arm tingling with numbness. Shaking his head, he told himself it was just an illusion—heat, dust, and fatigue playing tricks on him. He looked again at the shelf he had moved and the ancient ebony chest. This secret had been buried for decades, maybe centuries. It made no sense that it would suddenly speak now.
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Regaining his composure, Salem picked up the plate again. No sound. Nothing. Just a beautiful, strange artifact.
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But when he held it up to the faint light from the window, he noticed something else at the bottom of the chest—a sheet of paper. It wasn’t ordinary paper; it was thin, almost transparent, like stretched skin, inscribed with words in dark brown ink—perhaps old ink, or dried blood.
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He lifted it carefully. The manuscript was written in ancient, ornate Arabic—symbols and scattered words—but in one corner, a single sentence stood out clearly and chillingly:
"Wherever the whisper dwells, the gate of radiant light shall be found
ns216.73.216.13da2
and then Add to home screen.