The wind scrapes sand across the stones around you, dry and sharp, and the old man’s words stay suspended in the heat like something alive. What I carry… is for you. The sentence should sound absurd. It should collapse under the weight of common sense. But out there, in the empty stillness of the desert, common sense feels smaller than destiny.
You stare at him, breathing hard, one hand pressed to your aching lower back and the other on the curve of your stomach.
