He stood in the doorway of the café in Montreal, watching the steam curl against the frosted window. There, in the corner, sat Leyla. She was tracing the rim of her cup, a habit she’d had since she was nineteen.
They didn't talk about the war that had scattered them or the different lives they had built in the cold North. Instead, they spoke of the jasmine that grew over her father’s fence and the way the sea looked at dusk. Habibi Min Zaman
"I never stopped looking for this face," he replied, taking the seat across from her. He stood in the doorway of the café