Synopsis

When anthropologist Elena is summoned from her research in Dahkla to snowy Estonia at the urgent request of Tarmo Amellal, she expects an inconvenient detour. What she walks into is a collision of academic purpose and personal entanglement.

Leaving the oral histories of Marrakech in the care of Mrs. Henderson, she travels toward the Baltic with her research notes, an unfinished conversation layered in her memory, and more emotional luggage than she’ll admit. Somewhere between cultural preservation, diplomacy, and desire, her anthropological compass has gone rogue, charting not just heritage, but the bewildering, perilous topography of human connection.

Chapter 1

Fieldwork and Other Excuses for Emotional Mayhem

There’s a peculiar melancholy in descending through flakes of Baltic snow, like slipping, without warning, into someone else’s dream. From the aeroplane window, Estonia glistens: a white pelt stitched with frozen rivers, hunks of primordial pine, and the stony fingers of Tallinn’s spires clawing at a bruised December sky.

The seatback map traces our line from Istanbul, arcing over names I barely register. Below, the coastline is a blur where seawater and frost mingle in silvery gradients. This should feel like a straightforward trip—an assignment, a temporary redirection. Instead, my compass spins without coordinates.

Marrakech’s oral storytelling project lies in Mrs. Henderson’s meticulous hands, its intricate conversations now paused mid-sentence. The Dakhla research folders are stacked where I left them, along with letters and instructions. Hasna Benhali reassured, Marko’s involvement tightly bound. The work is preserved. I, however, am in motion for reasons that have very little to do with detachment.

It started—not surprisingly—in an airport.

Karim’s silhouette framed against the sliding glass doors in Dakhla, our goodbye, the sort of dialogue that speaks fluently in everything but words. The night before had rewritten boundaries; the morning after demanded that they be drawn all over again. I boarded that first flight with my pulse still laced to his, hidden under the calm efficiency I wore like armour.

Casablanca passed in fluorescent murmurs and slow-moving queues. But the real waystation was Istanbul.

The concourse there feels like a palace repurposed for travel—its Ottoman-inspired arches fracturing daylight into tessellated patterns across marble floors. I let my layover stretch in deliberate slow motion, notebook in hand, sketching columns that might once have borne the weight of a sultan’s court. Above, a steel-and-glass roof curled into patterns reminiscent of Iznik tilework, which I once wrote a thesis about.

Here is history dressed for velocity, tradition reframed as transit. Around me, the crowd flowed in dozens of languages, a living reminder that this has always been the world’s crossroads. Napoleon’s boast about Istanbul as the natural capital of the Earth felt, in that moment, less arrogant and more prophetic.

Two hours later, I would leave its thresholds for the Baltic. For now, I lingered in the in-between—passport in one hand, emotional debris in the other—half scholar, half fugitive of my own intentions.

Somewhere ahead: Tarmo’s urgency, the border city of Narva, and an assignment that might be more trap than detour. Somewhere behind: everything I’m not sure I can return to unchanged.

May the journey be hectic, but worth your while.

IrenA pHAEDRA

Each chapter here is a snowflake—brief, offering only one glimmer of the storm that truly rages further on. If this beginning stirs your curiosity or nudges at your empathy for the rogue anthropologist within, know that the full journey spills beyond these pages.

In Wattpad’s labyrinth, the narrative runs unfettered: more places, sharper paradoxes, confessions I’d never dare print here—each map edge unravelling into new territory. There, your voice is not only heard but woven into the fieldwork itself; your questions and insight help chart the next step.

So, if you’re done dabbling and ready to chase mayhem across continents and mental boundaries (warning: poetic license will be abused, and romance is a combat sport), then don’t dawdle at the threshold. Follow me to Wattpad, where maps are made by the lost and found—plus, it helps justify my coffee budget.

Because fieldwork isn’t a journey—it’s an exuberant excuse for emotional chaos, and you’re all invited. Step in or step aside; the Memory Cartographer doesn’t apologise, and neither should you.

So, if you’d follow fractured resolve across continents, cultural riddles, and emotional mayhem, step into the corridor. The cartographic expedition continues, and every seeker leaves footprints on the map.

Find me where the Memory Cartographer roams unconstrained—on Wattpad. The journey is more than a story; it’s an invitation.

 Find me on Wattpad as PhaedrasFables