The tiny café was nearly empty. Only a few hours ago, it had been packed to the walls with hungry marketgoers for the noontime meal. The scents of spice and roasted lamb lingered heavily in the air, cut through by the rippling twang of sitar strings. She took a bite of falafel and hoped she would forever associate the pulse of Marrakesh in the dwindling afternoon with the crisp, spicy saltiness dissolving on her tongue; the soft sun kissing the hair on her arms, standing it on end; and the hum of Arabic murmured in ears close by. Only in places such as these, thousands of miles removed from her past, was she at rest. Only here, cloaked in the lullabies of the unfamiliar, did she find her peace.