Mira steps past the line of shadow and the world changes key. The sunlight cuts off sharp as a blade behind her; the air is ten degrees colder, carrying the ghost of cedar and wet stone — smells that belong nowhere near this desert. The tiny figure in the vessel closes its eyes, its work apparently done. Before her, the sand begins to rise. It gathers slowly, without urgency: a column, then shoulders, then the loose suggestion of a head twice her height. Pale gold everywhere, ash-white at its edges, and where a mouth should be there is only a faint spiral pressed into the grain. It has no eyes. It turns toward her nonetheless. When it speaks, it bypasses her ears entirely — the melody moves through her sternum instead, and this time she understands the words. I have been waiting since before the city burned. It extends one long arm, and its palm opens like a question.