Part One
The Girl
The house was small, and it was abandoned. However, it would protect her, from the rain, the snow, and the heat. She did not mind the creaking sounds it made, nor did she care of the fractions of wind that would slip through the cracked walls. The door did not lock, the windows did not open, and the floor could not quiet. This, she did not give attention. As long as The Book could be kept dry, she did not mind a leaky roof and the chills of wind that would whip around outside, banging on the door to come in.
She had only had the book for a few days, and already she felt the need to protect it. It seemed important enough to pick up, where she had found it inside an ancient tree, in the direct center of the park. She could not know her city, or her street. She could not read what maps told her, and she had no family to guide her. Some days, she wished she had not been left alone that day, but this had led her to The Book. “Everything happens for a reason.” Now, she could tell you it was true.
Her mother was a poor woman, with a broken home, and the girl was her only child. She parted with her after only five years, unable to feed her and also fend for herself. The girl could not remember much of her mother, only that she had bright green eyes.
She woke up on a Tuesday morning, cradling The Book in her arms. This morning was especially bright, the sun slipping its fingers in through the cracks in the walls. She sat up slowly, stretching slightly, causing the book to fall to her lap. Looking fondly down at it, she gently picked it back up, swinging her legs off of her makeshift bed. Carefully placing her feet on the floor, she stood, looking over at the grimy window. The sunlight was still bright through the glass, if slightly darkened. She shuffles over to it, blinking sleep from her eyes, although this did nothing to clear the permanent blurry film.
Gripping the binding of The Book tightly with one hand, she swipes the other over the window, hoping to loosen some of the dirt. However, this only smudges the outside view even more, causing the girl to sigh softly. She clears her hand of the dirt, wiping it onto her dress, before hugging The Book once more.
She looks down at it, happily. Her eyes, though pale, somehow shine with adoration. The Book is all she needs to be happy, she thinks to herself. Surely, it is all she will ever need. She grabs a large hat from the floor, one that she acquired long before, when she first stumbled upon the shack of a house. Afterwards, she walks over to the door, placing the fedora on her head. It slips over her eyes, and she giggles softly. The Book seems to chuckle quietly as she pushes the hat back properly, opening the door.
She steps out into the sunlight, taking a deep breath. Summer, weeds and all, fill her lungs, the heat already having risen throughout the morning. She watches hazily as a few cars pass on the road before her, then looks both ways before crossing it. Continuing down the sidewalk, a small smile forms on her lips. She looks up at slightly familiar faces, strangers she’s used to passing. A few look back at her, and she nods to them with a larger smile than before, unable to wave. Everyday, she walks to the middle of the sidewalk, a bookstore on her left, and a bistro on her right. The street names, she cannot read. She does not know her city, her state, only that she is in America.
Usually, a man will stop her here, and hold out a slip of paper to her. She has learned this is money and one can obtain food and valuables with just a few of them. Today, however, he is not here, so she continues heading to her destination.
After reaching her perfect spot, she sits down carefully, crossing her legs. Placing the hat on the ground, upside down, she gently sets The Book in her lap. Mild excitement colors her eyes, looking down at it, paying no attention to the hat just yet. The best part of the girl’s day always occurred just after setting up her small self-charity. Carefully turning The Book so that it rests on its spine, she opens it slowly.
Skimming a finger lightly over the randomly selected page, tracing the symbols inked into the condensed tree, she smiles softly. Although the images are blurred, and therefor inaccurate in her eyes, they are still smooth. They are still beautiful to her.
She rests her finger over one particular set of symbols, unknowing as to what it means.
رمز لل الرائعة
She runs her fingers over it again. Once more. These particular symbols, though unreadable, attract her somehow. There were several others, but these in particular made the smile on her face grow wider, shifting into a grin.
She nods slightly to herself, flipping through the pages, slowly, until she found one nearing the middle. Everyday, she would sit down on the sidewalk, between the bookstore and the bistro, and she would make up stories. They were not the words of The Book, of course not, instead from her imagination. She would sit for hours and ramble on about mythical creatures, young boys and girls with extraordinary powers, and sometimes even The Book could be brought into the mix.
Today, it was not. Her story for this Tuesday morning was as bright as the sunlight that further whitened The Book’s pages. The story went as follows: A young boy walked down a small grass path, traveling beside the river. After what felt like hours, he found the end of both the path, and the river. The cave before him wasn’t large enough for a bear, or any other large animals, so he decided to take a look inside. Upon entering, he was met with a bright shimmering of pale blue. Burrowing further into the narrowing space, he reached out for the object. Tugging it out of its resting place, he crawled back out of the crevice. In his hands, he held a bag of polished fish scales, charmed to allow one to breathe under the surface of the river.
These kinds of stories were common among the girl’s tales, and she enjoyed stumbling over her words, replacing them with entirely different plot points. Some would stay for the entirety of the story, while others would simply smile at the child, placing a slip of green or a few small, metal objects into the hat. She smiles brightly at those who do either of these things, waving to a few, exclaiming that they “Have a nice day!” She did not plead to those who simply kept walking, not stopping for her, she merely continued ‘reading’ to the ones who did.
After the day started to slowly darken, she would begin the process of getting ready to go back to her small house. She did not need to go home, only to her house. She never needed to go home, because it was always with her. The Book was her only home. Cautiously collecting The Book and the hat into her arms, she walks down the sidewalk, a satisfied smile on her face. Heading toward the corner store, she shifts her two items around, holding the hat with one hand, and her ‘home’ under her arm. Once there, she pushes open the door, biting her lip slightly. The cashier, as always, walks over to her, and crouches down to her level. “Need help…?” he asks softly, as he does every other day. She had told him, when he first asked, that she simply ran errands for her mother, and that they lived close by. She explained that she carried the money inside of a hat, simply because she liked to wear it afterwards. The Book, she hadn’t explained, due to the fact he had never asked. Now, she nods, with a smile, mumbling, “Yes, please?”
The man follows her around the small store, noting that she, again, only places canned goods in the basket, and if not cans, they will never need refrigeration. The whole time, she is sure not to drop The Book, keeping it under her arm as she points to and reaches for what she wants. After she was finished, she hands the man the correct amount of money, as always, from the hat. She leaves the store, with a grateful smile on her face.
On some days, The Book will lead her elsewhere, but today, she continues with her nearly daily routine. After a short trip to her small house, placing the cans and whatnot in a cabinet she acquired, she picks up The Book again, walking back out and carefully shutting the door. Glancing around for a moment, she gives a secret smile to The Book. “We can go…” She mumbles softly, gently carrying the object down the sidewalk yet again. However, now, she goes in a different direction. Passing familiar strangers once more, she looks up at them, studying their expressions. She smiles softly, continuing on her way, all the while clutching the book tightly.
She has only dropped the tome once, on the way home from the small market. She remembers, she had shrieked, afraid it was damaged, torn, ripped- something. It turned out nothing was wrong, with all the pages in order and rectangular. She had dropped The Book due to haphazardly holding it before her waist, her fingers loose around the spine and outer edge. Not knowing of the danger this possessed, it had slipped from her fingertips, thudding as it hit the ground before she could catch it. She scrambled to pick it up, hugging it tightly once she had collected it into her arms. The only thought in her mind, “Please let it be okay!” After assuring herself it was not damaged, she continued walking, now worriedly glancing down at it regularly.
This is why she now clutches it more tightly, carefully avoiding holes in the cement that could cause her to trip. Nothing could keep her from checking at it, making one hundred percent sure that it was safely staying put against her chest.
Seeing her destination come into view, she grins for a brief moment, murmuring quietly, “It’s your home…” glancing down at The Book. As she rests her eyes over the greenery still forming in front of her, she starts thinking slightly, the words barely registering as sentences. Memories float adrift, blurry and incomplete. Those bright green eyes flashed briefly behind her eyelids, before she opened them, refocusing on her steps.  Squeezing the book slightly, as if it were a sibling enclosed in a hug, she stops, gazing out at the statues, trees, patches of empty fields, blanketed by green and bursts of color.
Scoping out the particular tree she is always so sure of, she walks slowly over to it, though wanting to rush her steps. The sunlight streams in between the patches of leaves, causing the edges of the greenery to shine with such a brilliance that is unable to go unnoticed. Reaching the trunk of the Moreton Bay Fig Tree, she smiles with a softness that shows exactly how much adoration she feels for the origin of The Book. This tree being her only knowledge of its past, visiting it became part of her weekly routine.
Knowing she does not having much time before she will need to walk home, she carefully sits down at the base of the wide trunk, afterwards placing The Book before her. Sitting with her legs under her, she skims a finger over the cover. Although she had just opened it earlier that day, she had not had the opportunity to study the symbols spread onto the pages. She enjoyed reading them, not with her eyes, but with her heart. It wasn’t that the symbols hadn’t any meaning; it was simply that she interpreted them differently than others. 
She had often thought that her weakened sight would cripple her in many ways. Rather, it became more beneficial than anything. Life, in her perspective, could not be any better. Others would argue she needed a family, a home, food, money, care, etc. On the street, during her story telling, two had even suggested she live with them. Despite not knowing the danger that could spawn from doing so, despite the happiness that bloomed in her heart whenever someone would speak to her with a concerned, caring tone, she kindly refused.
The Book was all she needed to survive. It was all she would ever need to live happily, she knew, as she pulled the cover back. Not only did her pulse quicken with excitement, but her smile grew wider. She runs her fingers over the ink, loosely clasping her other hand around the back cover. Ignoring loud music, blasting from close by, a common occurrence when she would travel to the Moreton Bay Fig, her eyes skim over the first page. Her gaze lingers over several sections, including the first line, and several others.

Continuing to look through The Book, she pauses briefly once more at several collections of symbols, afterwards slowly flipping through the pages. Every page is sacred, every encrypted word. As the sky starts to slowly darken, she loses herself in the ink, not realizing the time, the place, or the weight of The Book in her hands. This sometimes happened… She would get lost in the script, oblivious to the world around her. At one occurrence, she had stayed at the Bay Fig for over five hours, despite the voices around her quieting, the wind rustling the tree’s crown. It was only when it started to sprinkle, and a small water spot formed at the top of the page she was buried in, that she jumped up, cradling The Book, and ran back to her small house.

Now, as the moon becomes fully visible, she blinks several times, attempting to clear her vision, despite this being impossible. She carefully closes the book, wrapping her arms around it and slowly rising to her feet. She stumbles, but regains her balance, putting a small hand out to hold onto the bark of the tree. After she’s sure she won’t fall, she starts to walk away from the envelope in which she received the thick letter that would keep her company.

Part Two
The Book

The object rested comfortably, nestled inside the trunk of the bay fig. Silent, its pages did not rustle. The cover did not fly open, nor did the book flip over, tumbling from its hiding place. Sunlight illuminated the cover, bearing gold, green, and red, the colors etched carefully into the surface.  The soft shine from the thin metal paper reflected beyond the tree’s bark overhead and below, cradling the book. It was visible to even the blurriest eyes, so long as they were still blessed with some vision. A small pair of eyes caught the glimmer from within the bay fig, and short legs stumbled past each other. The being grew closer, pale orbs straining to catch sight of the source.
As the object became visible, with a curious tilt of the head, young hands reached out to pick up the book. A whisper escapes her lips, her eyes red from earlier tears.
“Book…”
A small smile reaches her face, expression brightening along with it. The slightest amount of happiness starts to lift the fog planted by the morning’s events. Losing her mother had struck her, simply a child, as confusing. Why would she leave me? What did I do wrong…? These thoughts filled her, completed any other thoughts. However simplified they may be in her young state, they are genuinely befuddled.
Finding The Book, which she now decided to call it, was the silver lining to her storm cloud of a day. She holds it carefully to her chest for a moment, before pulling it away slightly and looking at the cover. She turns it over, having been holding it upside-down. A quiet giggle escapes her at this realization. Her smile stays slight, though entirely real, as she slowly opens The Book, trailing a finger over the front cover beforehand. Her brow furrows slightly as she skims gently through the pages, not understanding the symbols before her pale eyes. She tilts her head once more, attempting to decrypt them, though she is obviously unable to. She can hardly read her own, English, language, let alone this foreign text.
She soon gives up on understanding, a smile returning to her face as she closes The Book. Hugging it to her chest, she looks at the tree for a moment. Another quiet whisper, laced with shyness, comes stuttering from her mouth.
“T-Thank you…”

_______________________

…
Now, the girl is walking. She passes the street on which she collects her daily payments, glancing in the direction of the small market. A cough escapes her lungs, causing her steps to halt. She releases one arm from around The Book, balling her hand into a fist and covering her mouth. After a moment, her hacking ceases, and she whimpers softly, continuing down the sidewalk. She looks down slightly, lip quivering. However, she does not let the tears spill from her pale eyes. No, she must be strong… At least until The Book is safe.
She knows it will never be found there, at least, she hoped. She would stay with it, if she could. However, that is impossible. It must be locked up, protected, and never to be seen again. It must fade from memory just as the color would fade from one’s eyes in the moment just before death. Just before the shackles of this world are broken, unlocked, and dropped to the ground.
Another fit of coughing erupts from her throat, causing her to stop once more, this time dropping the book to clasp her hands to her mouth, covering it up. After it ended, a small shriek from her and scrambling followed her realization of what she had done. She had dropped it, and so close to needing to leave it behind, too. Feeling awful, she picks it up, looks it over carefully, and enters the park.
She murmurs hoarsely to The Book, apologizing for dropping it so abruptly. Her voice cracks halfway through her sentence, and she whispers the remainder of her words. Stumbling slightly over to the fig, she looks down at the book regretfully. Knowing, somehow, that she must return the book, she forces tears back. “I don’t want to let you go… You’re my home… I love you…”
It may seem ridiculous, to some, that a child who is illiterate, especially in this foreign language, can love a book. How could she love at all, after being abandoned and shown she was no good? How could she care about anything, especially an object she had no use for…? The answer is simple- She didn’t let her past corrupt her present. Unable to find some one to cling to, she found some thing. And that thing was powerful to her. It held the secrets of the entire world, and was irreplaceable. In her knowledge, there were no other copies, and this mystical language was only viewed, however blurry, by her two eyes.
Reaching the tree, she looks up at it, anger owning her expression for a brief moment before she shakes her head. Careful to remember that the fig is not only going to take it away from her, but it also gave her The Book in the first place. She looks up for a moment longer; taking in the beauty the tangle of branches creates before the glaring sun. The light may not burn her retinas, but the glow is still harsh when it stands alone. She refrains from coughing, holding her breath for a moment. After she’s sure she won’t burst into a fit of coughing, she carefully lowers herself, kneeling before the fig. Her lip begins to quiver as her gaze drifts down to the volume in her arms.
“Their heart would line up with the object, clutching it to their chest, holding it protectively as to never lose it.”
Her eyes shine with brilliantly created tears, her gaze lingering, not wanting to lose sight of her precious book. The Book was her home. It was everything she could do not to cry out, brokenly, like a baby who has had its toys taken away.
“However, that was inevitable. The object could not be held onto. It couldn’t be salvaged, nor could it be remembered.”
Thought began to consume her, unknowing as to why she felt the need to return The Book. Surely, she would need it. Hopefully, she would be able to see it once more. The pain of its memory would otherwise hang onto her forever, a dark cloud constantly raining overhead.
“The figure grasps the object tightly in her hands, not wanting to let it go, not wanting to put it in the box. Tears begin to fall, skin whitening with her tense grip, heartbeat quickening in pace.”
A glance at the bark is all it takes to send her mind into a spiral, desperately attempting to hold onto a shred of hope. A small portion of her mother rests within The Book’s pages, forever encased in the smile the girl once owned at first sight of the object.
“Nothing can sooth her panic, except for the memories in her arms, the close proximity of the bound leather and frayed paper twisted in knots of sounds and feelings.”
“I-…” the quiet syllable escapes in a broken whisper, followed by a fit of coughing, causing her to double over for a moment. Expecting to get sick, she sets The Book aside quickly but gently, not wanting to ruin it. When the feeling subsides, she pulls her home back into her arms, looking upon it longingly once more. After slight thought, she starts opening it, simply wanting a final look at the beautifully inked pictures before her eyes. The symbol once more attracts her:
رمز لل الرائعة
Wondering as to what it means, why it causes her heart to race for a brief moment. Why it intrigues her and makes her love the book even more…?
Her thoughts again wonder, tears forming for a second time.
“I’m taking you to the park today…” A soft voice echoes throughout her mind, causing her to tilt her head just slightly. As she starts glancing around, the voice continues, “…And you can stay as long as you want-“ It breaks off abruptly, a small hiccup following.
She looks up at the tree in confusion, then down at The Book, assuming it will have an answer. Staring at the set of symbols, she continues listening for the voice. It does come again, this time clearly audible, as if it was a being directly behind the girl that was speaking.
“I love you, Zelmira… You’re a brilliant child. But…”
The voice trails off, and the girl’s brow furrows slightly, whispering, “Zelmira…?” while looking still at the symbols. A small cough follows a quiet whimper, roused by the idea of never seeing these symbols again. There comes thoughts of never sharing her stories with the men and women on the way to work. Never feeling The Book’s comforting weight under her pillow or atop her slender figure, resting upon her stomach. Unable to ever again cradle it in her arms, holding fast as she runs toward the park in a bout of excitement to retrace the strange writings within.
“Maybe, it can be found again… Maybe I’ll see The Book again… Maybe…” The thought drifts hopefully among a sea of doubt and hatred for the tugging at her wrists. They want her to let go. The whispers from the book are beginning to lessen.
The corridor stretches before her, narrowing until it reaches The Book’s resting place. It’s casing is not suitable; she knows it is not. It cannot contain the memories within its bindings, nor can it properly hold The Book, warmly and with care. No! This cannot be the end. She will keep it, not caring if she defies the crying of its pages, or the whimpering of the tree. She mustn’t give in… She mustn’t…
She must.
She slowly stands, shuffling closer to the provider and taker of The Book’s magic. Tears fall freely now, not bothersome enough to wipe away. She does not look down at it, nor does she allow herself to open it once more. It must stay closed. It was never meant to be opened… Never meant to be found. She was sure she had broken the rules. This is why the realization that she must return this tome, to its rightful owner, dawned on her.
Hesitantly, she kneels before the small room that would hold The Book for an eternity. The crevice of the fig’s trunk was almost fitted for the book. A shape similar to a rectangle, The Book’s size, was seemingly removed from the ground, specifically so that the book could rest. Vine and moss covered the trunk; the branches surrounding were immaculately placed, so like a symphony, it came from practice. Its perfection was only visible to those such as the girl, who could appreciate the tree for what it really was: An entity bearing a gift. This gift was in fact the object the girl claimed as home, although she was never meant to receive this gift.
Clutching the book tightly, she does not want to loosen her grip.
But she must.
She has to.
So she does. She slowly unwraps her arms from the sacred object she called her only friend, placing it delicately into the rectangular prison that would forever contain it. She lets out a quiet sob, tears still falling, before it triggers more coughing. Kneeling before the trunk of the tree, she looks at The Book regretfully. She continues coughing for a few moments before stopping the onslaught, letting out a soft whisper, “I’m so sorry…”
Debating briefly, she decides to stay at the fig, for as long as she can. She curls up into a ball, wrapping her arms around her knees, leaning against the wooden cage of branches and roots against her back, a reminder of what she had just done. Tears continue streaking, leaving wet patches on her cheeks, her dress, and the grass beneath her.
She begins coughing more regularly, spending hours simply curled up beside the tree, wishing The Book was laying beside her, or resting atop her chest. At some point, the fit is so strong that she releases the contents of her stomach onto the grass, afterwards quickly scooting away from it with a quiet groan.
She lays there, silently, for another timeless hour, the sky now a sea of sparkling, bright stars against the darkness of the night. The moon mocks her tears, a pool of shimmering light against the dark background. The girl’s mind wanders, thoughts most centering around The Book. Slowly, she begins to feel tired, but is able to stay awake, not wanting to lose sight of The Book within the confines of the tree. “I’m so, so sorry…” She repeats, slowly and carefully, as a sudden sleepiness overcomes her. It is too difficult to stay awake.
She must close her eyes.
The struggle to keep them open is too much. It is as if a magnet is pulling them down, causing her pale eyes to blur even more, this time not with tears, but with darkness. Darkness perceived as the end, the beginning, and everything in between. It is not certain; rather, it is an open window. Just enough room to escape, but not quickly. Never quickly. There is no way to tell where one will end up in the next cycle. Will it be beautiful, or dull? Will it be happiness, or depression?
The girl silently hopes that the next time she can open her eyes, she will see The Book again. The next time she will open her eyes is very far. Symbols drift behind her eyelids, and the name she so recently heard. “Zelmira…” she whispers quietly, lips barely moving. It is difficult to move. “I’m… Z-Zelmira…” she figures, and a fraction of a smile lights upon her pale, still lips. The girl is careful to stay still. For is she moves, the spell will be broken. The numb feeling overcoming her will cease, and pain will replace it with a fit of coughing. Only silence can accompany her. No longer can she hold The Book in her arms, no longer can it reassure her and console her. Her tears will fall freely, streaking down her face from closed eyes. Another soft whimper escapes her, her thoughts dimming.
If she could only hear its murmuring, the gentle caress of sound, once again. If she could feel it’s smooth, cold leather binding, once more.
But she could not.
She never could.
She never will.
Not anymore.

~Fin~

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رمز لل الرائعة : Brilliant
Zelmira (meaning) Brilliant : Origin : Arabic

Symbols Translation (They did not show up here, but these are briefly mentioned in Part Two: The Girl)
First Set: In the name of Allah, the Gracious, the Merciful.
Second Set: This is a perfect book, there is no doubt in it, it is a guidance for the righteous.
Third Set: Beware! It is they who create disorder, but do not percieve it