Abdullah sat in his small booth in the Market of Zanzib, surrounded by carpets that did not fly and lanterns that only held oil, never djinns. His life was as dusty as the silk he sold, but his mind was always elsewhere—soaring among the clouds in a palace made of silver mist and sunrise.
"You've come," she said, her voice clear as a bell. "But the djinns are waking, and the castle is turning toward the wastes." Uçan Şato – Diana Wynne Jones
One evening, a stranger wrapped in a cloak of shifting sand offered him a threadbare rug. "This," the stranger whispered, "will take you where your heart belongs, provided your heart is brave enough to stay there." Abdullah sat in his small booth in the