A Farewell at Sidi Yahya El Gharb

Description

Script Vidéo

It's late afternoon at the Sidi Yahya El Gharb train station. The air is thick with the scent of mint tea and the distant, rhythmic clang of coupling train cars. A soft melody, a blend of oud and piano, drifts from a nearby café, weaving a bittersweet thread through the scene.
Ayoub stands on the platform, his hand clasped tightly in Laila’s. The last call for the Marrakech-bound train echoes, tinny and distorted, over the loudspeakers. Laila’s suitcase, a worn leather testament to past journeys, sits at their feet. The light, the gentle Moroccan sun, catches the stray strands of her dark hair as a breeze playfully tugs at her headscarf. Ayoub's eyes, usually bright with laughter, are shadowed with an unspoken sadness. He sees the effort in her soft smile, a valiant attempt to reassure him, and it only deepens the ache in his chest.
The train, a hulking metallic beast, lets out a long, mournful hiss. Passengers jostle past, their voices a low murmur of farewells and anticipation. Ayoub clears his throat, but his voice still comes out a mere whisper, trembling despite his best efforts. "غادي نتوحشك بزاف عمري" (I will miss you so much, my life), he manages, his thumb stroking the back of her hand. His knuckles are white from the grip.
Laila’s lower lip quivers almost imperceptibly. Her eyes, usually sparkling with life, are now moist, though she blinks rapidly, determined not to let the tears fall. She squeezes his hand in return, a silent promise. A profound hesitation hangs between them, a desperate yearning to prolong the moment, to deny the inevitable. Neither wants to be the first to let go.
A final, insistent whistle pierces the air, and the train gives a lurch. A shudder runs through the metal, and slowly, agonizingly, it begins to move. Laila’s hand, still in his, is pulled gently but firmly. Their fingers intertwine for another precious second, then another, until they are stretched thin, a delicate bridge between them. He holds on, his heart pounding in his ears, willing time to stop. Finally, with a soft, almost imperceptible brush, their hands part.
Ayoub takes a few desperate, loping steps alongside the accelerating train, his eyes locked on Laila’s face in the window. She offers him another sad, watery smile and raises a hesitant hand in farewell. He keeps pace for as long as he can, the wind from the moving train whipping at his djellaba, until it’s no longer possible. He slows, then stops, breathless, watching the last carriage disappear around the bend.
The platform feels suddenly vast and empty. The oud and piano music, still playing, now sounds profoundly melancholic. He stands there for a long moment, the silence of her absence deafening. As the camera slowly zooms out, revealing the solitary figure of Ayoub on the now-quiet platform, a whisper escapes his lips, carried on the gentle breeze: "حتي أنا غادي نتوحشك ما تتعطل عليا" (I will miss you too, don't be late coming back to me).