The town at dusk felt muted, as if someone had pressed a silence button. Smoke from chimneys hung suspended over rooftops, reluctant to disperse. Samira pushed the bicycle along the cobblestone street, the wheels splashing through rain-puddles, scattering droplets. Karim sat in the front basket, clutching the jar of honey the woman had given him, a single apple blossom petal still twirled between his fingers, like a dream refusing to land.
The clinic was a pale green bungalow. Wind chimes made of empty medicine bottles tinkled at the door. The old doctor wore round spectacles, his stethoscope draped around his neck like a tame snake. After Samira's brief explanation, he simply shook down Karim's thermometer and said, "Borderline pneumonia. But the child is tough. Stay three days." Three days—enough for the Shadowhunters' net to shift west, enough for Samira to find the next path.
That night, Karim slept in an upstairs room overlooking a back alley. Samira sat by the bed, watching moonlight turn the IV bottle into a tiny cold lamp. The pinpoint hadn't glowed in a while, yet it warmed subtly with Karim's steady breathing—as if saying: *Keep moving*. She unfolded the hand-drawn map. Pencil lines snaked north, ending at a derelict post office, scrawled beside it: *Ash Letterbox*.
Early the next morning, the old doctor handed her a brass key. "Storage room at the town hall. The bicycle and supplies you need are inside." He lowered his voice. "Last night's broadcast said a fire at the camp across the river… 'No casualties.' But I know names linger in ash." He said no more, just patted her shoulder, pressing an unspoken blessing into her bones.
The post office stood at the town's northern edge, a two-story red brick building choked by dead ivy. The wooden door hung ajar; tarnished brass letters above it read: ПОЧТА. Inside, dust danced in shafts of light. Behind the counter hung a row of rusted mailboxes, their locks stuffed with faded greeting cards. Samira used the key to open a small metal box at the bottom. Inside lay a folding bicycle, a military canteen, a border pass, and a letter without a stamp. Her name was on the envelope, but the handwriting was Ilyas's:
*If you read this, my fire has burned where it should. Ash isn't an end; it's an address. Twenty kilometers north, at the end of the old railway, a mail-and-cargo train runs once a week. In the last car, a postman stamps papers for the nameless. Write your name, Karim's name, on a slip for the last window. He'll send your echoes across. Don't look back. The flame will watch you for me.*
On the back, a simple route: follow the ditch beyond town, through the birch woods, across a dry riverbed, to the tracks. At the end, Ilyas had drawn a tiny lamp in pencil, its wick curved into the shape of a heart.
Samira folded the letter and placed it in her innermost pocket, next to the apple petal and the charred fragment of the wooden bird. She checked the bike: tires full, chain oiled. A canvas mailbag hung from the handlebars, holding a box of matches, a Swiss Army knife, and a blank postcard sealed with wax. The front showed a black-and-white photo of the old post office; the back was empty, waiting for new names.
By afternoon, Karim's fever had broken. The doctor signed the discharge papers and pressed a small bottle of cough syrup into her hands. "For the road." Samira placed it in the mailbag, lifted Karim, and bowed deeply to the old man one last time. He waved her off, turning to adjust the wind chimes. Their *ting-ting* seemed to say: *Go, go.*
At dusk, they cycled along the irrigation ditch. Long dry, its cracked mud floor resembled a vast, ancient map, stubborn wild daisies pushing through the fissures. Karim sat on the back, arms around her waist, face pressed to her back, softly counting the telegraph poles: "One, two, three…" At seven, the birch woods appeared. White trunks gleamed; leaves flipped silver in the wind. Deep within, a woodpecker drummed, keeping time for the approaching night.
Beyond the woods lay the riverbed. The dry season had left only sand and pebbles, glinting like scattered silver under the moonlight. Samira dismounted, hoisted the bike onto her shoulder. Karim carried the mailbag. Their footprints sank into the sand, only to be smoothed away by the wind. Across the expanse, the railway tracks shone cold and straight, a drawn silver wire.
They reached the tracks late at night. A long, low whistle sounded in the distance, like the sigh of some ancient creature. An old green mail train crawled into view, a tiny postal emblem on its engine. Only three cars: one freight, two mail. Their windows were fogged, the light within the color of aged paper.
Samira folded the bike, hid it in bushes beside the track bed, then took Karim's hand towards the last mail car. The door was slightly open, warm light spilling out. She pushed it open. The car was stacked with mail sacks, smelling of ink, sawdust, and faint rust. An elderly postman in a worn uniform sat at a small table, stamping a pile of postcards with a fountain pen. He looked up, his gaze piercing through his spectacles to settle on the faint golden mark below Samira's collarbone, like recognizing an old friend.
"Mail to send?" His voice was hoarse but gentle.
Samira nodded, placing the blank postcard on the table. He handed her the pen. Ink gathered like a dark bead on the nib. She took a deep breath and wrote:
*To all scattered echoes—*
*My name is Samira. This is my brother, Karim.*
*We once lived in the war fires across the river. Then we lived in the ashes of the camp. Now we live in the sweetness of apple blossoms and honey.*
*Write our new address beside our names. Let wind, fire, and mailmen lead the way.*
*We go north until we hear our mother's song from the end of the tracks.*
At the end, she drew a tiny lamp, its wick curved into a heart. The postman took the card, stamped it firmly: Date - July 15, 2025. Place - *Silent Bridge*. He placed it in a special mail sack, sewing the opening shut with red thread, binding a promise.
The train whistle blew again, starting its slow pull forward. Samira lifted Karim, standing in the open doorway. The moonlit tracks slipped away like a silver cord being pulled back. Wind rushed past her ears, carrying the scent of the orchard's flowers, the sweetness of the woman's honey, the unextinguished fire from Ilyas's ashes. Karim buried his face in her neck. "Sis," he whispered, "I hear Mama singing."
Samira tightened her grip on the mailbag—inside it, the cough syrup, the knife, the charred wood fragment, the postcard now sent. She answered softly, "Then follow the song."
The train slid through the night, a fish swimming towards dawn. And their names, written in ash, were already carried by the wind, towards places further still.