In Oba, the end of the year did not bring snow or the hush of winter, but golden winds and crimson sunsets that lingered long into the evening. The desert celebrated in its own quiet way. Markets shimmered with silk, children darted between stalls with sweets in hand, and families gathered beneath cloth canopies to feast on roasted nuts and spiced tea. Gifts were exchanged—small things, mostly, carved trinkets or jars of sweetened dates—never extravagant, but always meaningful.

Nabila had never expected much from this season. Not because she wasn’t loved, but because love in her world was practical. Her mother gave her mended clothes and dried herbs for her cough. Her brother carved a new spoon to replace the one she’d dropped in the fire. She returned their gifts with labor: washing linens, grinding spices, patching up old sandals. That was how things were. That was how things had always been.

So when she found the gift—unmarked, wrapped in a square of green silk—resting on her windowsill one early morning, her breath caught in her throat.

She hadn’t heard anyone approach. No soft footsteps on the sand. No rustle of the woven mat outside her home. Just the cool morning light casting long shadows and the scent of clove drifting in from the east wind.

It was small, no larger than her palm. The silk was fine, far finer than anything she owned. And inside?

A charm. Golden, delicate. Shaped like a desert rose.

Nabila turned it over in her hands, her fingertips brushing the fine ridges of each petal. The metal was warm from the sun already, and when she held it to her ear, it chimed faintly—like wind through a hollow reed.

Her first thought was suspicion.

Why would someone give her this?

Her second was fear.

What if it was meant for someone else? Someone important? What if it was a mistake?

And her third… hope. Foolish, perhaps, but insistent.

Was it from someone who admired her? Had noticed her—quiet Nabila with the sand-worn skirts and soot-streaked arms—amid the crowded markets and temple steps?

The mystery gnawed at her.

She took the charm with her to the well, showed it to Rami the potter’s son, who blinked at it and shrugged. “Pretty,” he said. “Too pretty for someone like me to afford.” He sounded almost wistful.

At the market, she asked Soraya the spice merchant, who was known for having eyes like a hawk and ears in every tent. Soraya leaned close to examine the charm, sniffed the silk wrapping, and then raised a brow. “No merchant I know sells silk like this. This is imported. Someone spent coin.”

Nabila felt the weight of it in her pocket all day. Not heavy in a burdensome way, but dense with meaning she couldn’t quite untangle.

That night, as she sat under the stars beside her mother, peeling pomegranates in silence, she finally spoke.

“Has anyone… left anything for me? A gift?”

Her mother frowned. “Your brother brought back some figs. I gave you my second-best shawl.”

“No, not you,” Nabila said quickly. “I mean… someone else.”

Her mother glanced at her, sharp and assessing. “Who would give you a gift, Nabila?”

That question nestled into her like a thorn.

Who indeed?

It wasn’t until the fourth day, when she was walking past the temple steps, that she saw him.

Jaleel. The scribe’s apprentice. He was seated as usual, head bent over parchment, brushing ink with practiced hands. He was kind to everyone, always polite—but rarely spoke more than was necessary.

He looked up as she passed. Their eyes met.

And he smiled.

Nabila blinked, heart thudding. She hesitated, then stepped closer.

“Did you… leave something on my window?”

He looked startled, then sheepish. “I wasn’t sure you’d find it.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t want you to feel… watched.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I see you every week at the market. You help your mother. You never linger, but once… once you stopped to help a child who dropped his bread. You smiled at him like the sun. And I thought, if anyone deserved something beautiful… it was you.”

Nabila stared at him, stunned.

“I made the charm,” he added, voice quieter now. “Not much. But I shaped it myself.”

She held it again that night, under the moon, the golden rose glinting soft in the dark. This time, it felt lighter in her palm.

A gift not from a stranger. Not from someone above her station. But from someone who saw her.

And in a season of giving, that was the most unexpected gift of all.