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Spent twelve years at a loom in the medina before a scout found her restocking indigo in her family's stall. The hands remember the work — callus map still visible across her palms — but the face has learned to hold something back, a refusal so complete it reads as a kind of power.
The left eye sits fractionally lower than the right, a asymmetry so minor it only registers when she holds your gaze for three seconds too long.
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