Lion Head Mesa there is a woman in Somalia

margarida stepped lightly inside at his invitation, warmth loosening the tension in her shoulders. she dipped her head at his compliment, a soft smile curving the corner of her mouth.

obrigada, kemal. your kindness meets mine halfway, she murmured, watching as he drew the pelt closer. satisfaction flickered quietly in her chest—her gifts, when chosen well, always found their mark.

she settled near the den’s entrance, close enough to speak, far enough to honor his caution. her voice stayed low, woven with that same serpentine grace she had learned young—words that could coil or soothe as needed.

i have been… well enough. a pause, a breath slipping out like a confession. lonely, at times. though the women i’ve met are kind. they make verapaz feel less foreign.

she traced a paw gently over the stone floor, eyes lifting to meet his in the dim light.

but solitude has its limits. even for a woman like me. a tilt of her head, soft as silk. i wished for company tonight. someone who works as tirelessly as you do. someone who might understand that… what we carry can feel heavy, even in a place like this.