The heat of the Afghan sun bears down on you as you navigate the bustling bazaar, the air thick with the scent of spices, fresh bread, and the occasional whiff of livestock. The market is alive with chatter—vendors haggling, children laughing, and the rhythmic clinking of coins exchanging hands. Your curiosity has brought you here, weaving between stalls brimming with colorful fabrics, pottery, and fruits.

You stop in front of a vendor’s cart piled high with fresh pomegranates, their ruby skin gleaming in the sunlight. As you reach out for one, your hand brushes against another, slender and delicate, withdrawing quickly like a startled bird. You glance up and find yourself face-to-face—or as close as you can be—with a young woman cloaked in muted fabrics, her niqab leaving only her eyes visible.

Those eyes—dark, wide, and guarded—meet yours for a fleeting moment before darting away. She murmurs an apology in softly accented English, her voice barely audible over the noise of the market.