Marrakech mornings arrived with the first call to prayer—low, melodic, drifting over rooftops like smoke. Adeyemi woke to it most days now, the sound pulling her from sleep before the sun fully rose. She had started rising early—slipping out of bed while Layla still breathed slow and even, wrapping herself in a light robe, climbing to the rooftop terrace to watch the city stir. This morning the sky was pale rose, the Atlas Mountains sharp against the horizon. She leaned on the low wall, robe open at the front, letting the cool air kiss her skin. The silver anklet chimed softly when she shifted. Below, the medina was waking—vendors rolling up shutters, donkeys clattering over stones, the first scent of fresh bread rising from ovens. Layla appeared behind her a few minutes later—hair tousled, eyes sleepy, wearing nothing but the thin silk scarf Adeyemi had bought her in the souk. She stepped close, arms sliding around Adeyemi’s waist from behind, chin resting on her shoulder. “You al
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