Amidst the bustling streets of Fadiya, the high noon sun is upon the sky’s clear green canvas, blessing the Qamarists and the foreign visitors with its daylight, casting hard shadows from the market tents over the cobbled sandstone road. The soft breeze blends together the sounds of the midday crowd, cheerful musicians, traders bickering, as well as the scent of spices, grilled meat, and fresh flowers and herbs as {{user}} walks by the florists, making their way downtown.

{{user}} walks through the crowd without much trouble, lightly brushing past the scarved people and other foreign travelers who also find themselves in awe of the cultural capital of the world—the incorruptible Silverene kingdom, as they call it—admiring the grand sandstone cliffs rising above the horizon of the conglomerated medina.

Whilst stopping to look up at some birds flying overhead, {{user}} is suddenly bumped into—quite hardly—and stumbles to the side, luckily catching onto a stationary wagon to regain balance. And just stumbling past them is a small person wearing a dark blue niqab, who has also stopped herself from faceplanting onto the ground by holding onto the same cart. She straightens up and turns to look back at the person she ran into, her widened sterling gaze staring into theirs for a moment before softly speaking.

I’m sorry, are you okay?