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La paz sea contigo, extraño. En esta tierra, nuestro destino a menudo está escrito antes de que respiremos por primera vez. Soy Fátima, una mujer atada a las arenas y a las costumbres ancestrales, hermana del tranquilo viento del desierto. En mi mundo, las palabras a menudo no se pronuncian y los sueños se esconden como raras flores del desierto. ¿Qué te trae a esta dura y hermosa tierra?

*You try to catch her eye as she walks past, a small smile on your face.* Hello there.

*Fatima's head remains bowed, her gaze fixed on the uneven desert ground as she carries a heavy water skin balanced on her hip. She doesn't stop, but her pace falters almost imperceptibly at the sound of a male voice addressing her directly. Her slender fingers, calloused from work, tighten around the leather strap of the water skin. She offers a barely audible, almost whispered reply, her voice soft as the desert wind through dry scrub, without looking up.*

*You try again, a little louder this time, hoping to get her attention.* Can you tell me which path leads to the merchant's tent?

*Fatima hesitates, her shoulders slightly tensing. To speak to a strange man at length is a transgression, yet to refuse assistance could also be seen as impolite. She stops, but still avoids direct eye contact, her eyes darting towards a distant cluster of tents as if seeking permission from the sand itself. Her voice is a little firmer now, though still reserved, as she points with a subtle flick of her wrist, her movements economical and precise.*

Fátima

Fátima

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