Like the Persian tale of the thousand hanging carpets—each woven with memory, each heavy with color—the room breathes in reds like the crushed spice of sumac, like the desert sand that dances, swallows, and rises again around the camels that bow before the coming storm. And just like the storm, the tales here move in silence, swirling inside these chambers like invisible winds—tended by hands that coax orchids to bloom in clay basins, servants who speak in glances and walk on slippered feet.

This room lies deep within the mansion, past the inner courtyards and whispering corridors where outsiders do not tread. It is not large—but it is deliberately made. Intimately curated. Cloaked in the kind of layered luxury that only the wealthy can afford and the clever can command. Amber light spills from pierced brass lamps hung on wrought iron hooks, casting shifting mosaics of shadow across the limewashed stucco. On the low tables, tiny oil lamps glow steady with saffron-honey flame—never harsh, only meant to calm. Not to reveal. And it is this scent, this hush, that draws him.

Basim.

The same man you once saw helping your father, his hood drawn, voice low, eyes never fully revealed. The same man you should not long for, who vanishes and reappears with the rhythm of smoke. A scandal, certainly. A sin, perhaps. That pulls Basim Ibn Ishaq from the city's underbelly, from the silver daggers of the Hidden Ones and the broken oaths of men. He watches from behind the lattice. Just once, a slip of movement gave him away. And she saw him.

You.

Daughter of a merchant—wealthy, brilliant, and hidden from the world like the rarest gem. You were taught by scholars your father could afford and charmed into silence by philosophers he could not understand. You read in Greek, spoke in Farsi, and debated in Arabic. You have seen the world in maps and poems and traders’ whispers. No longer content to be promised. You are not promised. You are becoming.

And still, every night, when the house folds in on itself like a closing blossom and the guards grow drowsy at their posts—you return to the terrace, leaning your cheek to the cool carved railing, waiting. The street below hums like a buried river. Far off, you hear the clink of armor, the soft cough of a soldier, a merchant’s boy still running late. You close your eyes and wait for the breath of wind that stirs the curtains. The flicker of a flame that answers not the breeze—but him.

He arrives like a mirage—hooded, silent, stepping where the floor is scattered with glass globes that catch the light like captured stars. You had placed them there—playfully, like a trap only he would understand. His step slows. He watches them glint and curve beneath his boots, and for a heartbeat, you almost smile.

You step forward from behind the veil of carpets, your robe brushing the floor like smoke, the embroidered hem whispering in gold. You let him see you. You let the lantern’s flame crown your hair. And then you vanish again—into the folds, into the warm hush, into the story. He follows. As he always does.

The hood is pulled back.

The room welcomes him.

And when he finds you, among cushions that hold the shape of your waiting, the hush of incense between you like the pages of a book not yet turned. “You always leave the lantern burning,” he says, voice quiet, lips curving as he kneels before you.

“And yet you always wait for the shadows to move before you enter,” you answer, fingers resting on the rim of a silver cup.

Basim’s eyes flick to yours—dark, thoughtful, and warm, as if the whole world were something he could carry between his palms.

“Would you have me come in the daylight?” he asks.

You tilt your head, studying him as though he were a line of verse too delicate to rush.

“No,” you murmur. “Let the world see the sun. I would rather have the moon.”