by Percy

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

ما جعله مميزًا حقًا هو النقش. لم يكن التصميم مرسومًا أو مطبوعًا، بل كان جزءًا من الطين نفسه. شجرة وحيدة، جذورها متشابكة حول القاعدة، وأغصانها ممتدة إلى حافة الطبق. لكن الأغصان لم تنتهِ بثمر، بل بدوائر مجوفة، تتضاءل في حجمها باتجاه الحافة.

رفع سالم الطبق. كان باردًا بشكل غير طبيعي، حتى في حرّ الظهيرة. في اللحظة التي لامست فيها أصابعه سطح الخزف الأملس، شعر باهتزاز خافت - كما لو أن الطبق زفر بهدوء. ثم سمعه: همسًا.

لم يكن في ذهنه، ومع ذلك لم يكن قادمًا من الهواء أيضًا. كان رقيقًا - كحفيف رمل ناعم أو زفير ريح بعيد. لم يستطع سالم تمييز الكلمات، لكنه كان يعلم أن الصوت لم يكن من أي مكان في المتجر الصامت المزدحم. بل كان قادمًا من الطبق نفسه.

أسقطه بسرعة على الأرض، وذراعه تنمل من الخدر. هز رأسه، وقال لنفسه إنه مجرد وهم - الحرارة والغبار والتعب يخدعونه. نظر مجددًا إلى الرف الذي نقله والصندوق الأبنوسي العتيق. هذا السرّ مدفون منذ عقود، وربما قرون. لم يكن من المنطقي أن ينكشف فجأة الآن.

استعاد سالم رباطة جأشه، ثم التقط الطبق مرة أخرى. لا صوت. لا شيء. مجرد قطعة أثرية جميلة وغريبة.

لكن عندما رفعه إلى ضوء النافذة الخافت، لاحظ شيئًا آخر في أسفل الصندوق - ورقة. لم تكن ورقة عادية؛ كانت رقيقة، شبه شفافة، كجلد مشدود، مكتوب عليها كلمات بحبر بني غامق - ربما حبر قديم، أو دم جاف.

رفعه بحرص. كُتبت المخطوطة بخط عربي عتيق مزخرف - رموز وكلمات متناثرة - لكن في إحدى زواياها، برزت جملة واحدة بوضوحٍ مُرعب:

"أينما يسكن الهمس، سوف تجد بوابة النور المشع.