Whispers of the desert wind

The sun bled gold across the endless sea of sand, casting long shadows over the dunes that rolled like waves frozen in time. The desert was ancient—older than any kingdom, older than the bones buried beneath it. And it whispered.

They said the desert wind carried voices, the echoes of forgotten souls and buried secrets. Most dismissed it as superstition. But not Laleh.

She had grown up on the edge of the Dahran Wastes, in a village where water was more precious than gold and the old songs were still sung by firelight. Her grandmother used to say, “The wind speaks to those who listen with their heart.” Laleh had listened all her life, even when others mocked her for it.

At twenty-three, Laleh was a wanderer, a seeker of stories lost to time. Armed with little more than a journal, a worn satchel, and the scarf her mother had woven, she ventured deeper into the desert than most dared.

She wasn't chasing treasure. She was chasing a voice.

For weeks, she followed the wind, walking where it howled fiercest, camping beneath a sky strewn with stars. Sometimes, at night, when the fire crackled low, she would hear it—faint as a breath, soft as silk. Words. Names. A woman’s voice calling in a language she didn’t know, yet somehow understood.

It led her to the Valley of Murmurs.

A place so quiet it made the ears ring. No birds. No insects. Just wind slipping through the stones, humming low and sad. The valley was hidden between crescent-shaped cliffs, and at its center stood the ruins of a forgotten city—crumbled domes, shattered towers, and sun-bleached bones half-buried in sand.

Laleh stepped into the ruins, and the air shifted.

A gust brushed her cheek like a caress. She closed her eyes.

“You came,” the wind whispered.

Her heart pounded. “Who are you?” she whispered back.

The wind curled around her, playful yet mournful. It tugged at her scarf and pulled her forward, guiding her toward a broken archway. She followed, boots sinking into centuries of dust.

Beyond the arch lay a courtyard, and in its center stood a statue—its face eroded, arms outstretched. In its hands sat a shallow bowl. Laleh brushed away the sand inside and found an inscription, barely legible:

"To the Queen of Silence, who kept the wind alive."

The wind picked up, howling now. It wasn’t random—it was a chant. A song. Ancient syllables twisted into melody.

Suddenly, a figure stood across the courtyard.

A woman. Draped in flowing white, hair like black ink, eyes like the desert night. But translucent—flickering like a flame.

“You’ve heard me,” the figure said.

Laleh’s breath caught. “You’re real?”

“In a way,” the woman replied. “I am what remains of Queen Nayira. Long ago, this city thrived under my rule. We lived in harmony with the wind, listening to its warnings, learning its truths.”

“What happened?”

“Greed,” the queen’s voice turned bitter. “My own council betrayed me. They silenced the wind, locked it away in towers of stone. Without its whispers, the sandstorms came without warning. The wells dried. The city died.”

Tears pricked Laleh’s eyes.

“Why did you call me?”

“Because you listened. Few still can.” Nayira stepped closer. “The desert remembers. It has chosen you.”

“For what?”

“To be its voice.”

Laleh felt the wind wrap around her, curling through her fingers, her hair, her lungs. It rushed into her ears—not loud, but clear. She heard stories. Names. Laughter. Cries. Lives long gone.

And then silence.

Nayira was gone.

But Laleh was not alone.

The wind was inside her now—not as possession, but as companion. It no longer whispered at random; it spoke to her, as if recognizing one of its own.

She left the ruins the next morning, the sun painting the dunes in shades of fire and pearl. But she was no longer just a wanderer. She was the Windkeeper—the desert’s memory, its voice in a world that had forgotten how to listen.

As she walked back toward civilization, the wind followed her, tugging at her scarf like a playful child.

And in the quiet between footsteps, it whispered not in sorrow, but in song.