Mira rises and walks west, into the open light. The figure in the vessel closes its eyes the moment her feet find direction — as though its purpose is done — and the column of light contracts to a thread, thin as a needle, hovering just ahead of her at shoulder height. She follows it. Her camel does not come. When she glances back, the animal is already a silhouette growing small, unbothered, grazing at nothing. The thread leads her over the first dune's crest, and she stops. Below, at the basin's centre, something stands. Twice her height. Impossibly thin. A column of loose desert grain held barely in the shape of a person, its featureless face turned toward her, a faint spiral groove where a mouth would be. It has been waiting. The thread of light passes straight through its chest and continues — toward a ridge Mira cannot yet see past. The figure raises one hand, palm out. Stop. Or: come closer.