Once upon a time…

We were five, walking the red earth between thorn trees and termite towers. The hills rose like sleeping beasts, and the river ran wide and brown. People in the villages warned us about the Talking Wind. They said that when the hot season began, a wind came at dusk and spoke through holes in basalt. If you listened, it told you truths, but it took a truth back.

We sought a lost caravan road, marked on a brittle map with a line of dots. Bandits shadowed us for two days. We heard their whistles and saw vultures circle. The Talking Wind arrived one evening, purring through the stones. It said the bandits waited at the ford. In return, it took a truth: it stole our sense of direction from one of us.

We crossed by night. We followed fireflies that floated in chains like bead necklaces. They traced an old path up the ridge. At dawn, a basalt arch opened on the hidden pass. The bandits searched the ford and found nothing. We found the old road, and we did not speak of the friend who still walks half-turned.