Later that year, in a small coastal town in Italy, they walked through a flower field Zahrah had once seen in her dreams.
Without planning it, without a speech or a ring, Zahrah took his hand and whispered,
"If I ever marry… I'd want it to be with someone like you."
He looked at her — not surprised, not rushed — just present.
"Then let me be that someone… only if you're ever ready."
She nodded.
Not because she was ready in that moment.
But because for the first time…
She wanted to be.
They returned home, hand in hand, hearts steady.
Zahrah introduced Aydin to her family — not as a hero, not as a prince — but as a man who saw her soul before her scars. And Aydin, in turn, brought Zahrah to meet his family, telling them, "This is the woman I'd cross lifetimes to find."
There was no pomp. No throne. No titles.
Just love — deep, weathered, and unshakable.
Soon, his family came to her doorstep with honor and joy, asking for her hand in marriage. Her parents welcomed them with open arms, tears of pride and healing in their eyes. Together, they prepared a wedding — simple, pure — held in the very garden where Zahrah had once taught art to children and tended wildflowers with her bare hands.
Loved ones gathered. Friends who had fought beside her. Children she'd rescued. Students she'd taught.
Even the animals roamed freely — lions sleeping beside deer, doves circling above like blessings written on wings.
Zahrah wore no crown.
Only a white scarf, hand-embroidered by orphaned children she once saved — each stitch a memory, a prayer, a thank you.
Aydin wore his father's old coat, weathered by years, but full of quiet strength.
There were no vows written.
Only a single promise, whispered together beneath the sky:
"No matter what storms may come, let us never forget how to hold the quiet."
They didn't marry to begin a fairytale.
They married to continue a truth,
That love, when born in healing, can turn even a war-torn soul into a sanctuary.