Morocco flinched slightly at the voice—warm, but unexpected. As she turned, the late afternoon sun caught the edges of her embroidered kaftan, casting soft golden patterns on the garden path. Her brow furrowed for a brief second before recognition dawned—and then softened into something warmer, though cautious.

"Who are you? I mean… hello?" Morocco stepped forward slowly, hands brushing off traces of soil from tending to the herbs.

"So… what wind brings you to my garden?"