The door leading to Marrakech is, thankfully, not too far from where we enter the Between. Still, we are on high alert as we walk the short distance. Paheli and Valentina told us of the events that occurred the night before. We’re all anxious, and though at this moment we see no enemies, we can feel them, nipping at our heels and hastening our steps. Funnily enough, it seems as if the Between is as tense as we are; the sound of it is muted, and the golden light in it shines so bright that no corners are left unilluminated. Taraana, as usual, is glowing like the sun at noon in the Between.

We keep an eye out for a burning door. Perhaps we will encounter one and Taraana will bleed on it, forging a bond with the Between. But alas, we are disappointed. However, we reach the Marrakech door without incident and walk through it into a narrow street in the Medina, not far from the Jemaa el-Fna where people gather to buy and sell goods and food. It is midmorning and the air is filled with the scent of exhaust, food, and spices. To blend in better, before leaving Chefchaouen, we changed into caftans, while Taraana is wearing a cotton djellaba with a pointed hood that he refuses to pull up. He has his spectacles on, however, so we are somewhat reassured of his disguise.

Though the city is entirely new to Taraana, it is familiar to us. Returning to Marrakech always feels like putting on a well-loved dress. We have spent a lot of time in this city, learning its softness. Enough time that it has acquired the tangy flavor we associate with home. It’s true. We look for the scent of home in every city we travel to.

An abundance of middle worlders call Marrakech home. Something about the Red City makes the magic here intoxicating. The Medina is like a wonderland. Not the pale and cultured Wonderland Alice walked in, but a Wonderland that is wilder, one whose song gets underneath your skin and heats your blood. The streets of the Medina are labyrinthine, bordered on either side by mud-brick ramparts often shaded red by dust or paint.

We navigate the alleys and pathways of the Medina, avoiding mopeds, bicycles, and carts pulled by donkeys or horses. The streets are crowded. We’re visible to humans at this moment as we walk quickly, in twos and threes, drawing glances from the middle worlders present but nothing more. We keep our eyes empty of recognition, and no matter how fantastic the physical expression of the middle worlder, we don’t look. We won’t look at what the humans can’t see.