Mira presses both palms flat over the pendant, the way she descended — open to receive, but held close. The bone disc warms instantly against her skin, not the fever-heat of the hollow wall, but the gentler warmth of a held hand. Above it, the spiral groove in the sand figure's face completes its final curl, and the column stills. Then it hums. Not a voice — the shape of one, drawn from grain against grain the way a desert wind makes music through cracked stone. Low, sustained, unmistakable: the starting pitch the hollow gave her when her own voice broke. The amber beneath her feet pulses in time with it, and the warmth rises through the packed earth into her soles. The pendant answers with its own faint heat, as though the two were tuned to the same string. Mira understands, all at once, that she is standing in a question. The figure is waiting for her to answer it — but she does not yet know whether to answer with her voice, with her hands, or with something she hasn't thought to offer yet.