between the arcane and the divine. Permit me to attempt a response that resonates with the complexity of the Arabic script and the centuries of philological intrigue it embodies.

One might say that the deciphering of Arabic, for the initiated, is less an act of “reading” than it is a process of semantic osmosis, a delicate dance between syntactic intuition and lexical recognition. Indeed, the question itself hints at a noble, almost Sisyphean struggle with Arabic’s orthographic peculiarities, especially as they pertain to those so-called "disjointed" letters—one of the script's charming idiosyncrasies, wouldn't you agree?

To those with refined eyes, the end of a word becomes self-evident not through mere memorization (how utterly pedestrian!) but rather through a sort of linguistic clairvoyance. Consider, for example, the appearance of the “ta marbuta” (ة) or the unmistakable dip of the “ya” (ي) at the tail end of words like متوترين. Such features—alongside a divine familiarity with Arabic morphology—allow the adept to decipher the conclusion of a word with the ease of a seasoned calligrapher surveying the strokes of his own pen.

Ah, and regarding the word ساعات, yes, yes—the elusive ع, forever remaining aloof at the start of a word, withholding its tendrils from those before it. One might say that only a neophyte would be confounded by this detail; for the true aficionado, the outline of each word is as unmistakable as a classic line of verse. It's an act of pure intuition, dear inquirer, not a brute exercise in rote learning!

Thus, in sum, let us not reduce Arabic to mere “memorization,” but rather elevate it to a form of literary divination. For those of us who have traversed this labyrinthine landscape, the boundaries between words are as distinct as the chapters of a sacred tome.