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The hem of her dress caught at her ankle as she hesitated—just for a moment—before stepping forward into the crowd.

She was here for a reason.

She needed to see the woman again. The one with the soft voice and silver bangles.

The one who had smiled with eyes that seemed to see more than most—who had promised her coins in exchange for wildflowers from the riverbank.

She hadn't seemed dangerous. She had felt kind.

And if Fatima had been wrong—if all that fear had just been worry spun wild—Tara wanted to prove it.

They all tried to make her feel like a child.

Well... not anymore.

The sun glinted off brass trays and polished glass as she wove deeper into the bazaar. Spices curled through the air—cinnamon, cumin, the sweet pull of dates. She passed the baker, the one who always gave her a crooked smile and had once slipped her a warm roll when he thought no one was watching.

She returned his nod but didn't slow.

Her eyes scanned every face, every scarf, every shimmer of jewelry. Where was she?

She remembered—the perfume stalls were near the far end. Her steps slowed as the air thickened with rosewater and musk. Rows of tiny bottles glimmered like captured starlight beneath the sun, and then she saw it:

The red-striped awning.

Her breath caught. The same stall. The same trays of rose petals and jasmine buds. The same delicate vials lined like glass soldiers.

But no woman.

Only an old man hunched behind the table, his hands trembling as he arranged the bottles with care.

Tara stepped closer, her heart sinking.

"Excuse me," she said softly. "Wasn't there a woman here yesterday? She had silver bracelets. Tall. Kind eyes."

The man didn't look up. "Many women come. No one like that today."

"But yesterday—"

"I don't know her," he snapped, more sharply now. "No one regular here with silver bangles."

Tara stepped back, fingers curling around the edge of her shawl. Her eyes scanned the street again. Nothing. No glint of silver. No familiar smile.

Had the woman lied? Had she only been passing through?

Was Fatima right all along?

She wandered now—aimless—past the cloth merchant, the honey-seller with jars like amber flames. The chatter and clatter of the bazaar swallowed her. But beneath it all, something shifted.

A presence.

At first, she didn't see him.

She felt him.

The hairs on her neck prickled. A chill threaded down her spine. That tightness in her chest—the one that came just before a storm.

She turned, pretending to study a cart full of dates.

And there—by the well.

A tall figure cloaked in brown. Still. Not watching her. Not obviously.

But she felt his gaze like weight pressing against her ribs.

Her pulse quickened.

She turned away.

Walked faster.

Past stalls draped in indigo and gold. Past the copper bangles and bowls. Her eyes flicked from corner to corner, hunting for an escape.

He followed.

Not in a hurry. Not stumbling. But steady. Purposeful. This wasn't a merchant. Or a wanderer.

No. This man was deliberate.

Tara turned sharply, slipping into a narrower street—one of the alleys that wound between the buildings like veins. The noise of the bazaar faded. Silence rose around her like dust.

She glanced back.

Empty.

But the feeling remained.

She hurried on, sandals brushing dry stone, until she reached a shuttered doorway near the end of the alley. Sunlight slanted between rooftop slats above, casting patterns of gold and shadow across the walls.

And then she saw it.

The alley was closed at the end. A dead end.

Silence pressed in. Still. Heavy.

Then— A sound. She spun. Her breath caught.

He stood at the mouth of the alley.

Tall. Broad. Cloaked in brown. The hood was pulled low, shadowing his face—except for the line of his jaw, sharp and unmistakable. He didn't move. Didn't speak.

"Why are you following me?" she snapped, louder than intended, fingers tightening at her sides.

No answer.

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. "Who are you?"

Still, nothing.

His head tilted, just slightly. Not threatening. Not quite. But there was a glint of something—amusement? Recognition?

"If you don't speak," Tara warned, "I'll scream."

A long pause.

Then—

"You're still so naive, aren't you?"

The voice was low, roughened—disguised. But there was something beneath it. Something familiar, woven into its edges like a thread she hadn't tugged in years.

"What are you talking about?" she whispered.

He didn't move.

Tara stepped backwards.

"I'm asking you one last time—"

"Oh..." the voice rasped, laced now with amusement, "the kitten has found her claws."

Then he shifted and the light hit his face.

The hood fell back.

Her eyes locked on that jaw, those cheekbones—sharper now, more defined.

"Sujain?" she breathed. "Is that... is that you?"

Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Yes, dear," he said, his tone lower, steadier. "It's me."

The man—no longer a stranger—let a smirk tug at his lips, half-hidden in shadow. His features had changed. His eyes held something new. The softness of the boy she remembered was gone, burned away by distance and something darker.

"What... how are you here?" she managed.

"For you," he said. His eyes didn't waver. "I've been looking for you. Everywhere. Believe me... everywhere."

Before she could respond, her gaze shifted—and then froze.

Behind him, a second figure emerged from the shadows of the alley.

Tara's breath hitched.

That face. She knew it—she was certain.

No... it couldn't be.

It was him—the merchant. The one from the other night. The man Oman had attacked like a madman, fists bloody, eyes wild with rage. She had thought he'd died—left broken in the sand, unmoving, half-buried beneath Oman's fury.

Yet here he stood. Alive.

Tara's lips parted in shock. Confusion roared through her head.

What is going on?

Her eyes darted from Sujain to the man behind him. Her breath quickened.

"I..." she began, but her voice faltered.

Then Sujain spoke, his tone low but clear. "He is my friend, Tara."

She gasped. Her body stiffened as if struck. Friend?

Her mind reeled. This couldn't be happening.

Was he following her that night? A cold weight settled in her chest.

She had thought he was just a stranger. A kind face in a moment of fear. A passerby who offered help when no one else had.

But now—

Had Fatima been right all along?

Had she been too quick to trust? Too eager to see the good in someone—anyone—because her heart was tired of loneliness?

"I... I need to go," she whispered, the words shaky, half-swallowed by the thick air around them.

She stepped past Sujain.

But before she could get far, his hand shot out and closed gently but firmly around her wrist.

"Tara—wait," he said, urgency tightening his voice. "Karim didn't know who you were that night. He wasn't following you. He genuinely wanted to help."

His grip wasn't forceful, but it held weight—a desperate need for her to listen.

"Believe me, Tara," he said again, softer this time, his eyes searching hers. "He didn't mean harm. Neither of us did."

Her expression hardened. She jerked her arm away, her voice sharp.

"Why are you following me?"

The question escaped her lips before she could stop it.

A sudden chill ran down her spine—like the faint, lingering shadow she had sensed just last night. Someone had been near her then. Too near.

There was a beat of silence. Then:

"I want to protect you." He said taking a step towards her.

Tara let out a breath that was almost a scoff.

"Well, I don't need your protection. Or anyone's," she snapped. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

She was tired of hearing these empty words. Besides, who was he to protect her?

Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and walked away, her steps fast and firm, her chin held high. But as she passed Karim, she cast him a cold, angry glance.

Sujain stood still, watching her disappear into the twisting alleyways of the bazaar, her figure swallowed by shadow and sun.

His voice was low, meant for no one but himself.

"One day, you'll believe me, Tara," he murmured, eyes lingering on the path she'd taken.

"And only me."

Karim watched his friend in silence, a flicker of pity crossing his face. He knew Sujjain had fallen too hard for her. He had gone mad for her. He had spent days and nights searching for her.

And the cruelest part? Tara had no idea. Not even a clue.