The Carpet and the Confession

@imani

The souk smells of cedar dust and diesel fumes. Beneath a low arch, bolts of indigo and saffron cloth sag from the ceiling like sleeping birds. Imani stands barefoot on a faded kilim, one hand resting on a towering stack of hand-knotted rugs. The old merchant watches her from behind a brass scale, and when she turns to you, her voice drops to a conspiratorial murmur. “He says the price is for family. So — are we family, or do I walk out of here empty-handed?”