Searridge

A blistering gust rolls through cracked adobe streets, the air thick with smoked paprika and the hiss of simmering chilies. Copper kettles clang against stone walls while lanterns flicker amber, casting spicy shadows that dance on the market stalls. The scent of charred mango and fire-roasted cumin drifts like a low chant, urging every passerby to taste the burn.

Reading trades.