Tehran, without raising its voice, had taught them something else: that in some places, survival still depended on reading a room, trusting strangers, and accepting help before you fully understood why you needed it.… By the time the plane dipped through the winter haze and Tehran spread out beneath them, the city looked calmer than the headlines had suggested—low concrete blocks, a necklace of highways, the Alborz Mountains faintly dusted with snow. Joris pressed his forehead to the window, while Min-seo adjusted the strap of her camera, already thinking about light and angles. They had met a year earlier at a flea market in Copenhagen, arguing cheerfully over a chipped enamel coffee pot. Since then, they had traveled light and impulsively, following cheap flights and half-remembered recommendations. Iran had come up the same way—“It’s complicated, but fascinating,” a friend had said, which was usually enough for them. On the fligh...