Mira's fingers close around the vessel and she steps back — one pace, then two. The sand figure's reaching hand slows but does not grasp; it hangs in the cold air, palm still open, patient as geology. She crosses the shadow line. The cellar-cold releases her in an instant, replaced by full desert heat pressing against her skin like a flat stone. The cedar and wet stone scent vanishes. The sand figure holds its position at the boundary — its core dims from amber back to pale gold, the spiral groove turning once, slowly. Through her sternum there is a last tremor, not quite words: not yet. Or perhaps: I will still be here. The vessel is warm now against her ribs, warmer than her own skin. Across the open sand, her camel shifts its weight and the bell rings once — clear, small, and entirely ordinary in the brightness.