Georgia Halford is my employee. Nothing more.
“Mr. Aarons, you know this area?” Rashid asks in accented English, gesturing to our left.
I look and feel my breath catch.
The old market. The souk.
It’s exactly as my grandmother described it—narrow streets branching off the main road, buildings leaning close together creating shadows and secrets, strings of lights that will glow bright later tonight. I can see displays of brass lamps, pyramids of spices in jewel tones, vendors calling out their wares.
“My grandmother grew up near here,” I hear myself say. “She used to go to this market with her mother. She said you could buy anything in the world if you knew who to ask.”
“Ah, yes! This souk, very old. Many generations. Your grandmother had good taste. This is the best market in the city.” Rashid beams at me.
I stare out the window as we pass, trying to superimpose my grandmother’s stories onto the reality in front of me. She would have walked these streets. Touched these walls. Breathed this air.
She died three years ago, and the grief still sneaks up on me at unexpected moments. Like now, when I’m finally here in the place she always talked about with such longing, and she’s not here to see it.
I wish you were here, Grandma.
She was the one who came to my school plays, who taught me to cook, who told me stories and listened to mine. She never treated me like an investment or a disappointment. She just… loved me.
She was my mother’s mother, carrying on that love in my mother’s absence.
And she would have been so excited about this project.
The memory of my father’s dismissive words burns fresh.Your grandmother’s nonsense. Fairy tales.
My hands curl into fists on my thighs.
This isn’t nonsense. This is her history. Her heritage. And I’m going to prove that it matters. I’m going to uncover something real and significant, something that shows her stories weren’t just fantasy.
I have to.
Not just to prove my father wrong, though that’s part of it. But to honor her. To make her proud, wherever she is.
We pass out of the commercial district and into older neighborhoods. The buildings here are more traditional, with wooden balconies and doorways that lead to courtyards. Laundry hangs from lines strung between windows. Children play soccer in the street, scattering reluctantly when Rashid honks.
“It’s so alive,” Georgia says softly. “The whole city just… pulses.”
She’s right again. There’s an energy here that New York doesn’t have. It’s not the frantic rush of American capitalism. It’s something older. More grounded. Like the city knows it’s been here for millennia and will be here for millennia more, so why rush?
“You’ve studied this region extensively,” I say, half-turning toward her. “But you’ve never been here before?”
“No. I’ve worked in Egypt, Jordan, Syria before the war. But never Jumayah. It was always on my list, but…” She shrugs. “Life happened.”
“And now you’re here.”
“And now I’m here.” She smiles, but there’s something wistful in it. “My mentor would have loved this. Henry spent years trying to get funding for an expedition to this region. He died before it happened.”
“I read his work. It was brilliant.”
“Hewasbrilliant.” She looks back out the window. “I hope I can prove his theories right. For him.”
So, we’re both here for ghosts.
The thought should make me uncomfortable, but instead it feels like understanding. Like maybe she gets why this matters in a way that my board members and certainly my father never could.
“Here we are!” Rashid announces, pulling up to a modern hotel. It’s one of the best in the city; I made sure of that. “Jumayah Grand Hotel. Very nice, yes?”
