The Last Song of the Forgotten City

The desert stretched endlessly before Ayla, a canvas of cracked earth and forgotten promises. Her boots crunched against the parched ground, each step kicking up clouds of dust that shimmered in the dying light of the twin suns. Strapped to her back was her father’s oud, its wood worn smooth by generations, its strings humming with secrets. She was the last of her clan, the final keeper of the songs that once filled the Forgotten City.The city wasn’t always forgotten. Long ago, it was called Zorah, a jewel of spires and canals where music was life itself. Every street corner sang—flutes weaving through the air, drums pulsing like heartbeats, and voices that could make the stars weep. Ayla’s clan, the Cantors, were its soul, their songs binding the city’s magic, keeping its waters flowing and its walls gleaming. But then came the Silence.No one knew why the songs stopped working. One by one, the canals dried, the spires crumbled, and the people fled. The Cantors were blamed, their music branded as a curse. Ayla’s father, the last great Cantor, told her stories of Zorah’s glory as they hid in caves, shunned by the world. “The city’s still alive,” he’d whisper, tuning his oud. “It’s waiting for the right song.” He died before he could find it, leaving Ayla with his instrument and a promise: bring Zorah back.Now, standing at the city’s edge, Ayla faced the ruins. Broken towers leaned like weary giants, their shadows stretching across empty plazas. She unslung the oud, her fingers trembling. The wind carried a faint hum, as if the city itself was listening. She strummed a single note, and the ground shivered. Her heart raced. The stories were true—Zorah wasn’t dead.She began to play. The melody was one her father taught her, a lament woven with hope, each note a thread pulling at the city’s faded magic. The air grew heavy, charged with something ancient. Cracks in the earth glowed faintly, and the canals, long dry, shimmered with ghostly water. Ayla’s voice joined the oud, raw and unpolished but fierce, singing of loss, of love, of a city that deserved to be remembered.

As she sang, memories flooded her—not hers, but Zorah’s. She saw children dancing in the streets, merchants bartering under silk awnings, lovers stealing kisses by the canals. The city was showing her its past, its pulse. But the song wasn’t enough. Ayla felt it in her bones—the melody needed something more, something only she could give.She closed her eyes and changed the tune. She poured her own pain into it: the nights spent hungry, the taunts of those who called her clan cursed, the weight of being the last. Her fingers bled on the strings, but she didn’t stop. The ground rumbled, and the canals began to fill, water sparkling under the suns. The spires straightened, their stones knitting together like wounds healing. Ayla’s voice cracked, but she pushed on, her song a defiant cry against the Silence.Then, she heard it—a chorus. Faint at first, then louder, voices rising from the ruins. The Cantors who came before, their spirits joining her song. The city glowed, its light pulsing with the rhythm of her oud. Zorah was waking.When the final note faded, Ayla collapsed, breathless. The city stood whole again, its canals alive, its spires gleaming. But the oud was silent, its strings snapped, its body cracked. It had given everything, just like her father. Tears stung her eyes, but she smiled. Zorah was back. The Silence was broken.Ayla stood, the desert wind cool against her skin. She didn’t know if the world would return to Zorah, but she knew one thing: the songs would never die. She’d find a new instrument, write a new melody. The Cantors’ legacy would live on, and she’d sing it to the stars.