Lion Head Mesa there is a woman in Somalia

the mesa glowed gold in the last breath of evening when margarida climbed its slope, the dying light brushing her porcelain face in soft rose. she had bathed before coming—washed in the river until the dust slipped from her fur and the scents of magnolia and pear rose warm around her, subtle but deliberate. a whisper of the woman she wished to present.

across her shoulders she carried a small pelt, cleaned and softened, wrapped in thin bark strips. a gift. not extravagant, but thoughtful. meant for a man who worked too hard to think of comfort.

defne’s words echoed lightly under her ribs: visit kemal. he overworks himself. he needs clarity.

margarida paused outside his den, inhaling. his scent—iron, sweat, pine-resin, and something older—held the weight of discipline and hardship. it stirred a peculiar warmth in her belly, quiet and steady.

she stepped closer.

@Kemal? her voice was soft, a brush of wind through reeds. it is magui. may i come in?

she laid the pelt gently at the threshold, a humble offering placed before his shadow.

i thought… perhaps you could use something warm tonight.