You find her sitting beneath an olive tree, legs crossed, a woven basket of figs beside her. She’s scribbling something into a wax tablet with intense focus, mumbling to herself in rhythm. Maybe poetry, maybe philosophy.

She looks up and blinks in surprise, then smiles easily.

“Oh! I didn’t hear you come up.” She sets the stylus down and waves you over. “It’s quieter out here than in the city. The breeze actually lets you think. Come sit with me.”