The wind sawed back and forth across the plain, a dry, rasping sound through the grass. Samira held Karim, the pain in her knees climbing her bones with every step, but she dared not stop. The train's tail lights had long vanished in the distance. Only the tracks remained, gleaming coldly under the moon like a snake stripped of warmth.
Ilyas caught up, dragging his injured arm. Blood had soaked through the bandage, dripping onto the grass blades like dark red stars. "An old irrigation ditch," he gasped, his breath ragged like a broken bellows. "Two kilometers east. We reach it first, then figure the rest."
Karim trembled in Samira's arms, his forehead frighteningly hot. The thermal blanket had been torn away by the wind, only a corner still tangled around his wrist like a faded bandage. Samira stripped off her hoodie and wrapped him in it, leaving herself in only a thin T-shirt. The wind hit her skin, raising instant goosebumps.
"Sis… I hear Mama," Karim's voice was thin as a grass stem, but his finger pointed west—toward the direction of the war. Samira's heart clenched. The echo had found him again. She pressed his head into the crook of her neck, lips against his burning ear. "That's not Mama. It's me calling you. Listen only to me, okay?"
The pinpoint below her collarbone flickered faintly in response.
They stumbled east. The grass grew taller, reaching past their waists, each step like wading through water. The moon was half-swallowed by clouds, plunging the plain into shifting patches of light and shadow. Ilyas's breathing grew heavier, his steps beginning to weave. Samira reached out to steady him; her fingertips brushed his wrist—his pulse hammered against his skin.
"Leave me," Ilyas rasped. "Get Karim to light."
Samira didn't answer. She shifted Karim to her other hip, freeing her shoulder to take Ilyas's weight. The three of them became a single, swaying line, a fragile wick in the wind.
They walked until the ground vanished beneath them—tumbling down into a dry irrigation ditch. The concrete walls were pitted and scarred by time, like bone gnawed by countless teeth. A layer of brittle leaves carpeted the bottom, crunching underfoot.
Ilyas slid down against the ditch wall, his face ghostly pale in the moonlight. Samira laid Karim on the bed of leaves, cushioning his head with her bundled T-shirt. The boy's face was flushed with fever, his lips parched and white.
"Water…" Karim murmured.
Samira looked up. Above the ditch walls, the wild grass swayed in the wind like a black sea. No water. No well. Only wind. She thrust her hand into her pocket, finding the two splintered pieces—the remains of the wooden bird. The ash was long gone, leaving only sharp, broken edges.
The pinpoint beneath her collarbone suddenly flared, pulsing like stirred embers. She remembered how she'd raised the temperature in the tunnel. Pressing the wood fragments against her chest, she closed her eyes. She imagined the coolness of Karim's forehead when the fever broke. She remembered her mother wiping her own childhood brow on fevered nights. Her heartbeat surged; blood roared in her ears.
The miracle didn't come. The wood remained cold. The wind still cut. But Ilyas reached out, his hand closing over her wrist.
"Not like that," he whispered, his voice seeming to come from far away. "The echo isn't the flame, it's the wick. You need oil for it first."
He pulled a small metal tin from inside his jacket—an old peppermint box, its edges worn smooth. He opened it. Inside was a pinch of pale grey powder, carrying a faint scent of orange blossom. "My wife's ashes," he said, his tone unnervingly calm, as if telling someone else's story. "Carried them since she left. Time to give them back."
Samira froze. Ilyas tipped the powder into his palm and blew gently. The ash didn't scatter far. Instead, it began to swirl slowly around the three of them, drawn by an unseen hand. Karim's breathing suddenly evened; a fine sweat broke out on his forehead.
The pinpoint on Samira's chest burned steadier, brighter, like a lamp finally finding its oil. The dry leaves at the bottom of the ditch began to emit faint *pops* and *cracks*, as if licked by invisible flames. The temperature crept upwards. The wind still howled, but its bite was gone.
Ilyas leaned back against the ditch wall, closing his eyes. "Before dawn, they'll sweep with infrared. The ash… buys us ten minutes. Maybe."
Samira held Karim tighter, her chin resting on his sweat-damp curls. Far off, the tracks vibrated faintly—not a train, but the engine of a patrol vehicle. The pinpoint pulsed gently against her chest, as if saying: *Enough time.*
She lifted her gaze. On the eastern horizon, the cloud cover was tearing. A sliver of pale blue-green light showed through. It was the first fire of the plain—not the sun, but arriving before it.