Buying the Djellaba from a mute peddler, I felt the cloth prickle as a windless whisper threaded its seams.
I told myself the stitched sigils were nothing but a trader’s flourish, yet as I studied them I heard a cadence like distant surf counting, and my pulse stuttered.
When I drew the hood and the weave tightened around my skull, the pattern resolved into a cold atlas of black gulfs and watchful mouths, and I understood I was no buyer but a named offering, measured and noticed by something that would not stop at skin.
Saved at 2026-01-18 03:18 UTC
