Mira presses her thumbnail beneath the wax. It gives — not with a crack but with a sigh, as though relieved. The cord unravels on its own, thread by thread, pooling into her lap like something living. She lifts the lid. Light. Not fire-light, not sunlight — something older, the color of the last moment before sleep. It rises in a thin column and hangs in the air before her face, turning slowly. Inside the light there is a shape: a figure, small enough to cup in both hands, seated cross-legged, robes the color of dusk. Its eyes are closed. Its lips are moving in the same melody, though no sound reaches her anymore. Then the eyes open. They are the exact color of the kitchen she grew up in. The figure raises one hand — and offers her a choice without speaking: it points left, toward the horizon, and then right, toward the dune's shadow.