The shop occupied a corner position in Tafersit's main market, a space that had been in Abchiti's family for four generations. His great-grandfather had opened it as a small trading post, buying wool and argan oil from the mountain villagers and selling goods brought up from the cities on the coast. The business had grown and shrunk with the fortunes of the region, surviving wars and droughts, economic booms and political upheavals, until it had settled into its current form as a general store that sold everything from cooking oil to mobile phone chargers.
Abchiti's father, a man of few words and steady habits, was already arranging the morning display when his son arrived. The older man nodded a greeting—his standard form of morning communication—and continued his work. Abchiti had long ago learned not to expect conversation before noon; his father operated on a schedule that seemed to have more to do with the position of the sun than the hands of a clock.
The morning passed in the familiar rhythm of commerce. Farmers came down from the higher villages to purchase supplies, exchanging news and gossip along with their money. Women from the town stopped in for cooking essentials, lingering to discuss family matters and the latest rumors from Al Hoceima and Nador. Children were sent on errands, their small hands clutching coins and shopping lists, their eyes wide with the importance of their missions.
Around mid-morning, Abchiti stepped outside to take advantage of a lull in customers. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of cedar from the forests on the northern slopes and something else—a faint mineral tang that he had never noticed before. It seemed to come from the direction of the old quarry above the town, a place that had been abandoned since before his grandfather's time.
"I'm going to check on the storeroom," he called to his father, though this was not entirely what he intended. Something was pulling at him, an inexplicable urge to walk toward that abandoned quarry, to see what lay among the old stones that no one had touched in decades.
His father grunted acknowledgment, and Abchiti set off through the narrow streets of the upper town. He told himself that this was simply a walk, a chance to stretch his legs after a morning of standing behind the counter. But the pull in his chest grew stronger with each step, as if an invisible cord connected him to something waiting in the heights above.
The path to the quarry wound between houses that grew steadily smaller and poorer as it climbed. These were the oldest parts of Tafersit, buildings that had stood for centuries, their stone walls thick with history. Abchiti had walked these streets countless times as a child, playing hide-and-seek among the ancient foundations, but today they seemed different, as if he were seeing them for the first time.
A particular house caught his attention—a ruin that he had passed a thousand times without really noticing. Its walls had partially collapsed, revealing the structure beneath, and carved into one of the exposed stones was a symbol he had never seen before. It looked like a stylized mountain with something—perhaps a star or a flame—rising from its peak.
Without thinking, Abchiti reached out to touch the carving. His fingers had barely brushed the weathered surface when a jolt ran through his body, not painful but startling, like the static shock of touching metal after walking on carpet, except this sensation seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his skin.
He pulled his hand back, staring at the stone. Nothing had changed—the symbol remained as it was, weathered by centuries of wind and rain. But the feeling persisted, a hum of energy that seemed to resonate in his bones, as if every cell in his body had been tuned to a frequency he had never known existed.
"What was that?" he whispered to himself, but the empty street offered no answers. Only the wind responded, gusting through the narrow passage between houses, carrying with it that mineral scent he had noticed earlier, stronger now, almost overwhelming in its intensity.
He should have turned back then. Every rational thought in his mind told him to return to the shop, to forget about the quarry, to chalk up this strange experience to fatigue or the remnants of his forgotten dream. But something deeper than rationality was driving him now, something that had been awakened by that single touch and refused to let him retreat into the safety of the ordinary.
The path grew steeper as it left the last houses behind and climbed toward the bare slopes where the quarry had once operated. Abchiti's breath came harder now, not just from the exertion but from a rising sense of anticipation that he could not explain. It was as if he were approaching a destination he had been seeking his entire life without knowing it existed.