The figure's first word is her mother's name — *Senna* — drawn long, like sand sifting through a fissure. Then, lower: *the vessel is a debt unpaid. The burning was the price of what she hid.* Mira's hand moves before she decides. She pulls the vessel from inside her robe and holds it forward, arm extended, fingers trembling. The moment the clay clears her clothing, the pulse doubles — no longer a slow heartbeat but something urgent, frantic. The sand figure does not reach for it. The column tilts, that hairline lean of something enormous bending closer, and the spiral groove at its face opens wider until a low note emerges — the exact pitch of the lullaby. The vessel's wax seal shivers. From inside, something presses hard against the clay, once, twice, as if testing the seal from within.