I will never forget Noura's look when she entered my library, and she had not entered it for a long time. She found me standing in front of the TV watching a decisive penalty kick in one of the Al-Nassr football club matches. She was about to talk, but her eye suddenly landed on the row of the book series al-Wafi bi-al-Wafayat, the edition of the German Institute, which occupies an entire shelf in 33 volumes, each one larger than your fist. She stared at it gloomily, then went back to stare at me, while I was standing in front of the TV, and the voice of the commentator screaming: "Goal, goal, goal!". She asked, pointing with her relaxed index finger to the shelf as if enjoying a strange sight as if she was looking at a strange animal in the zoo: What is this?" I said cautiously, that you could, unfortunately, recognize my shyness and lack of confidence in justifying my confusing hobby: "Biography books.". She moved her head forward as if picking up the mysterious words that stopped before her ears: Whose biographies? The commentator shouts: "It's a clear shot at the goal that can't be blocked, Ya Salam -oh glory-." I shrugged my shoulders with the same retreating caution: writers, prominent figures, and scholars, and added, exposing the escalating contraction, and people. This was followed by a moment of silence, then she shook her head and laughed to herself, and waved her hand as she turned: "Come to dinner, come.". I went out.