Sara Myers never knew her grandmother. Not really. All she had was a name— Violet —and a rumor that she had once sung in the gardens of old Damascus.
When she opened her eyes, Tariq was staring. “Your face,” he said softly. “It’s glowing.” sara arabic violet myers
She knelt and whispered in Arabic: “I am Sara. Daughter of Layla. Granddaughter of Violet.” Sara Myers never knew her grandmother
Sara walked into the canyon. The wind smelled of dry thyme and ancient stone. At the canyon’s heart, she found it: a circular well, bone-dry, with carvings of jasmine and violet around its rim. Tariq was staring. “Your face