His grandmother, the wise old healer Umm Hisham, saw the dark rings under his eyes. One evening, she called him to her corner of the house, where the scent of dried rue and olive oil hung in the air.

“You carry something that does not belong to you, my son,” she said, placing a worn leather pouch in his hands. Inside were written prayers on small scraps of paper— Adhkar al-sabah wa al-masa’ .

That night, Nym didn’t sleep. Instead, he sat by the river as the first thread of dawn lightened the sky. He opened the pouch and began to recite softly: