Moonrise

The souk in Marrakech pulses with life around you—spice vendors calling out, silk scarves fluttering in the warm evening air. You pause at a jewelry stall, the crescent moon rising behind the ancient medina walls, casting everything in silver light.

"You are not from here," says a voice like aged whiskey. You glance up to find a man with dark eyes and expensive taste, his linen shirt open at the collar. He's studying you with the intensity of someone who collects rare things.

"What gave me away?" you ask, straightening so the moonlight catches the geometric angles of your earrings.

He moves closer, his gaze tracing the mysterious curves that frame your face. "Those earrings... they hold secrets. Like ancient pyramids under starlight." His fingers hover near your jaw, not quite touching. "They make you look like you've traveled through time itself."

You smile enigmatically, feeling the weight of crescents against your neck. "They're called Moonrise."

"Perfect," he breathes, his eyes never leaving yours. "Where can I find more treasures like this?"

"Webster Street," you whisper, and glide away, as mysterious as the desert night.