Assad hadn't slept a single minute that night.
The song he had heard at the oasis kept looping in his mind. It wasn't a whisper or an illusion brought by the wind; he could still hum a few notes. The words, the intonation... all of it felt strangely familiar. A soft, melodious language he had once heard during his years of study in the United States.
There, in the noisy university halls, he had often heard Italian students speaking — sometimes even singing. That memory resurfaced with unsettling clarity: it was Italian. He was almost sure of it.
At dawn, driven by that instinct, he buried himself in research. After a few hours comparing the melody in his head with online videos, his doubts vanished: it was an old Italian lullaby. A song mothers had sung for generations. Simple, emotional... and nearly forgotten.
That detail made the whole situation even stranger.
What would a young woman, alone, be doing in the middle of the desert, singing an Italian lullaby?
Assad's curiosity turned into obsession. He needed to understand. He had to go back.
---
The next day, the sun was already high when he reached the oasis. The sand shimmered with heat, but Assad didn't slow down. He scanned the surroundings carefully. Nothing. No sign of the mysterious singer.
Everything seemed calm. Too calm.
He guided his horse to the spot where his old tent had once stood, beneath the shade of a large palm tree. Memories came flooding back: the laughter, the late-night talks, the silent desert stars.
He found the tent. The fabric, though aged, still stood. Carefully, he pulled back the flap.
The interior was clean. No piled-up sand, no musty smell. It was as if someone still lived there.
On a small wooden crate, something was missing — a tiny but obvious absence. He swept his eyes over the tent and spotted an object half-hidden under a cloth: a comb. Elegant, finely carved. Clearly old.
Assad picked it up.
The wood was polished, delicate, adorned with fine engravings he didn't immediately recognize. This wasn't a simple comb left behind by a traveler. It was a precious item. A keepsake. Perhaps even a relic.
Someone had been here. Someone who knew this place.
He stepped back outside, heart pounding.
It hadn't been an illusion. Not a legend. Not a "djinn."
It was a woman. A real one.
Someone who had sung in Italian in the heart of the desert.
Someone who, maybe, was connected to this tent, this comb, to Italy.
And Assad knew he would return. Again and again.
Until he uncovered the truth.
---
The sun was setting behind the dunes, casting an orange glow over the sand.
Nahia and Amaya were returning from their foraging, baskets full of dates and wild roots. They walked in silence, alert and discreet. As always.
As they neared their tent, Nahia slowed.
Something felt wrong.
Her sharp eyes noticed what others would have missed: the flap slightly out of place, footprints a little deeper in the sand.
She set down her basket and rushed inside.
Everything was in its place. Almost.
One detail sent a chill down her spine: the comb.
The one she had brought back from Italy.
Their mother's comb.
Always resting on the crate like a quiet tribute to their memories.
Gone.
"No..." she whispered.
She paced, searching for other clues. Nothing obvious.
The intruder had been methodical. Respectful, even.
But he had left with the one thing that mattered.
Amaya joined her at the entrance, frowning.
"What's wrong?"
Nahia stood up slowly, her face hardened.
"Someone was here."
Amaya looked down, her breath catching.
She wasn't a child anymore, but in that moment, her eyes held all the fear of a little girl forced to run once again.
"We have to leave," Nahia said.
"Where to?" asked Amaya.
Silence.
Then an image came: the market.
And that woman.
A stranger with gentle eyes who had once helped her, without asking questions, on a day when everyone else had turned away. Nahia had promised herself never to forget that gesture. Today, it might be their only hope.
"To the market," she finally said. "Maybe we'll find a helping hand there."
Amaya nodded without protest.
She trusted Nahia. Always.
They gathered their few belongings. Clothes. Food. Silence.
They would leave the oasis as soon as night fell. Walk under the cover of darkness.
Hoping to escape the one who had found them.
And by morning, if luck was with them,
they would be at the market.
Where, maybe, everything could begin again.