Lion Head Mesa there is a woman in Somalia

margarida let the pelt settle around her shoulders like a mantle, warmth easing into her bones. kemal’s nearness, his steadiness, made speaking easier… and more dangerous. she chose her words with care.

loneliness is not the only thing that weighs on me, she admitted, voice soft as dusk. a woman thinks of her future. of the family she might one day raise.

she paused, looking into the dim of his den rather than directly at him—subtle, respectful, but not evasive.

verapaz is strong… but small, she continued, tone almost thoughtful. there are few men here. few paths for a woman who wishes to be a mãe.

a faint smile touched her mouth, wistful rather than pointed.

i wonder what options i truly have.

she lifted her eyes to him then—calm, open, unpressing, but undeniably searching.

that is what troubles me, kemal. not desire… but uncertainty.