> "If you quarrel with your brother, do not carry that rage into the day that follows—for at the end of it all, you are still molded from the same dust."—Sheikh Nour

  His words echoed in my mind like the final line of a sacred poem, carried on the wind as I crossed the last battered stretch of earth before the border.

  I was exhausted. The soles of my Crocs were worn thin, their battle scars telling tales the world would never read. Gary lay curled up across my back, arms limp around my shoulders, snoring softly. A living weight that reminded me why I kept walking.

  And in my hands… the Rubik’s Cube. Its once-disciplined faces were now a kaleidoscope of madness—twists of color, unsolved and beautiful in its chaos. Just like the journey.

  The desert had thinned into rock and earth, and then—like a whisper parting the veil—I saw him.

  Sheikh Noman.

  Tall, robed in white that shimmered under the sun, standing with the patience of a man who had watched empires fall and still believed in tomorrow. His eyes met mine, kind but heavy with unspoken stories.

  I approached and bowed my head respectfully.

  “Peace be upon you,” I said.

  “And upon you, seeker,” he replied, his voice as deep and steady as a canyon. “You’ve made it further than most.”

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  He welcomed us into his humble home not far from the checkpoint, a house carved from sun-baked stone, fragrant with herbs and history. The walls were lined with old books, calligraphy, and black-and-white photos of people who dared to stand. The kind of place where time sat down to rest.

  I pulled out my phone and called Sheikh Nour. I needed him to know I’d made it.

  He answered almost instantly. I put him on speaker.

  “Hello, old friend,” Sheikh Nour said. “May peace and blessings be upon you.”

  “And upon you too, brother,” Sheikh Noman replied, a smile tugging at the corners of his beard.

  Then, a beat of silence. And suddenly—humor.

  “Do you,” Sheikh Noman began, “remember the five pounds I lent you… just a few days before the Palestinian war?”

  Gary looked up, mid-bite. I stopped chewing.

  “I kinda need them right now.”

  A soft chuckle came through the speaker.

  “When Palestine is free,” Sheikh Nour said, “if Allah wills.”

  “If Allah wills,” Sheikh Noman replied with a laugh that seemed to shake the dust off the ceiling.

  And while they rekindled their old memories through prayer and playful debt, Gary and I were locked in our own sacred rite—the devouring of kebab and kofta.

  Each bite was a sermon in flavor. Charred edges. Smoked fat. The fire still clung to the meat like a holy spirit. Gary devoured three skewers before his head hit the table again, lost to sleep and grilled perfection.

  Night crept in quietly. And before the stars had a chance to settle into their constellations, we stood at the edge of the house, ready to move once more.

  My Crocs—still sturdy, still fearless.

  My Cube—still scrambled, defiant against all logic.

  Gary—still asleep on my back, dreaming of wolf fights and nameless bandits.

  My willpower—untouched by fatigue, lit from within by the unspoken promise of revenge.

  And somewhere, far ahead in a fortress of sterile glass and power-drunk policy...

  The FIFA President's fate was already sealed.