This book, a collection of scattered papers, was left on a patient's bed in a mental institution. Despite not having a title, I always knew what to call it. I hesitated to publish it, except for the author's habitual visits to me every night as I drifted asleep at my desk, weary from work. In my dreams, I saw her reading it and heard her voice for the first time. I often urged her to talk to me, but she would remain silent, refusing to utter a word. Initially, I was disturbed by her silence and reluctance to converse with anyone, including me. I thought perhaps it was because I was a man, so I brought her a female companion, but she reacted the same way. Remembering her, I envision her sitting, stretching her legs on her bed, gazing at her feet as if she wished to devour them but was unable to reach them. Her voice echoed in my heart; it was gentle and tender, unlike her words. It was a soothing sound like a quiet symphony. She began reading to me what she thought I had skimmed, stealing glances into the void, dissipating them with a painful smile. Between words, she would take a deep breath and exhale like a gentle night breeze. The words from her lips were sweet like lawful sugar, though tinged with her sorrow. Her eyes trembled along with her heart, fear gripping her body. She dug her nails into her thigh, making me think she might have wounded it, which she possibly did.

• Publishing house: Dar Taskeel Publishing and Distribution
• Number of Pages: 252
• Year of publication: 2017