They tried a Caesar shift, sliding letters forward and back, listening for familiar Arabic-root patterns hidden in the Latin script. Hours passed; the market emptied, lanterns were lit, and the parcel grew heavier with speculation.
At midnight they went. Gate Seven was a rusted iron arch on the edge of the old quarter, ivy strangling its stones. A single shadow waited, breathing in the cool air like smoke. He stepped forward as they approached. They tried a Caesar shift, sliding letters forward
For a moment they hesitated. Night meetings by old gates were the stuff of spy stories, not market days. Still, curiosity is a currency of its own. Gate Seven was a rusted iron arch on
Ahmed squinted. "Looks like a code. Numbers, letters... 'verified' at the end. Whoever sent it wanted us to know it's real." For a moment they hesitated