Guardians of the hidden city

Chapter 1

Sometimes, Amal would catch herself halfway through a story she'd been telling and realize she'd lost track of her own words. Her place in the story and the point she'd started with. This was usually when someone would raise an eyebrow, glancing around like they were wondering if there was a polite way to cut her off.

Living in Rabat didn't exactly help her stay on track. The city was a distraction buffet—a mess of colourful alleyways twisting together like puzzle pieces, marketplaces so loud you'd feel the noise in your bones, and smells of roasted nuts and grilling sardines drifting in from every direction. It felt like the city was conspiring against her focus, daring her to look anywhere but where she was supposed to.

Right now, she was supposed to be working on her English presentation on famous architects—specifically Zaha Hadid—and not on how the sunlight caught the dust floating lazily through her tiny bedroom. She was sitting on the floor, surrounded by books, with her laptop precariously balanced on a stack of notebooks. To anyone else, it might look like she was deep into her research, focused and determined.

But in reality, she'd only been reading about Hadid for fifteen minutes, and her mind had already wandered to twenty different places. Amal's gaze drifted from the paragraph she was supposed to be reading to the balcony door, where a soft breeze was lazily nudging the curtains. She loved how the air felt here—how it changed from warm to cool as the ocean tide rolled in and out, almost like the city was breathing.

Focus, she reminded herself, trying to bring her mind back to the screen. "Zaha Hadid. Iraqi. Famous architect. Innovative, bold structures..."

But her thoughts took another detour. Wasn't Zaha Hadid Iraqi? What was pushing through a field that mostly ignored her like for her? And didn't she move to London at some point? Before she knew it, she was opening another tab to look it up, and just like that, she was off on another tangent.

By the time her phone buzzed, she'd barely written three lines of her presentation. A text from her mom popped up on the screen: Did you remember to pick up the bread?

Amal groaned, dropping her head against her knee. She'd forgotten entirely. The bread was just one of the things she was supposed to pick up on her way home... along with olive oil and her brother's art supplies. She could almost hear her mom sighing: Amal, you'd forget your head if it wasn't attached.

Maybe she was right.

Amal grabbed her bag and rushed down the stairs, her mind already racing to find a way to make up for forgetting the bread. Maybe she could detour past the bakery on the corner—it was only a few blocks away, and she'd probably run into Hicham, the baker's teenage son, who'd gotten used to her chaotic appearances.

As she stepped outside, Rabat pulsed with its usual afternoon rhythm. She weaved through clusters of people—old men playing chess outside the café, women balancing bags of vegetables on their heads, and the occasional tourist snapping photos of the crumbling but beautiful architecture. The air was thick with a mix of scents she could never quite get used to a swirl of roasted spices, fresh bread, citrus, and hints of salt from the distant ocean.

Amal moved through it all, a tiny whirlwind in a calm city, caught between her responsibilities and her endless curiosity about everything except what she was supposed to be doing.

The air was a blend of roasted coffee beans, fresh bread, jasmine, and that sharp tang of car exhaust that always seemed to settle over the city.

"Amal!" a familiar voice called, and she spun around, nearly colliding with a parked motorbike. Rania, her best friend, stood by the door of the bookstore where she worked part-time, arms crossed and a smirk stretching across her face.