The dunes hum. Mira hears it first as a trick of the wind — a single sustained note threading between the rocks, almost mournful. She stops walking. Her camel's bell falls silent as if the beast itself is listening. The note bends. Becomes a melody. It is not a sound the desert should make. It carries the cadence of a lullaby her mother sang to her in a kitchen a thousand miles from here, in a city that no longer exists. Mira has not heard it since the burning. She turns, scanning the horizon. The sand is empty in every direction. The melody persists, soft and patient, neither growing louder nor fading — as though it has been waiting. Then, at the foot of the nearest dune, the sand shifts. A small hollow opens, no wider than a hand, and from it the song pours upward, clear as glass. Mira kneels. The melody changes — into a question.