The scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm za'atar bread filled our tiny kitchen as Rami spread printed sketches across the table, each one a wild tangle of arrows, boxes, and his messy Arabic scrawl. Farah knelt on a chair, "helping" by coloring the margins with purple crayon.
"Look," Rami said, tapping a diagram that looked like a spiderweb. "Abu Ahmad tested the inventory feature today. If it worked for his pottery shop, it would work for anyone." His eyes shone with a light I hadn't seen since Dubai, but softer now, like sunlight through honey.
I traced a finger over the screen of his battered laptop where the app prototype glowed, a simple interface with cheerful yellow buttons. "You built this in three weeks?"
"Stole your idea," he grinned, stealing a bite of my bread. "Asked Amman what it needed."
The doorbell rang. A parade of unexpected visitors followed—first the spice merchant from Downtown, smelling of cinnamon and curiosity, then the young embroiderer with her pi
