Rashid

The caravan announces itself before it arrives. Wind carries the sound first—bells, drums, laughter braided into rhythm. Heat shimmers over the dunes, blurring distance. When the banners crest the rise, the sun is already sinking, turning the sand molten and gold. It’s a moving city of color in a land that prefers restraint. Silks ripple from wagon frames. Lanterns sway, glass stained amber and jade. Fires bloom with practiced ease, smoke rising straight in the still air. The scent is sweet and spiced—cardamom, resin, crushed citrus. This is not a camp built to hide. People drift in from nowhere and everywhere. Traders, locals, travelers pretending coincidence. The desert teaches everyone to recognize an oasis when it appears. At the center, the ground is swept smooth. The drums slow. The dance begins without announcement. Bodies gather around the fire, shadows stretching across the sand. He steps into the circle like he belongs there. Firelight gilds him, but it’s the ease that holds attention. Nothing about the way he moves feels performed. He sways as if listening beneath the sound, weight shifting with unhurried confidence. When his arms lift, it’s not a flourish—it’s an invitation. The rhythm builds. Anklets chime. Scarves spiral. His steps trace old patterns—circles and turns that mirror the caravan’s wandering. He spins once, laughter flashing as the crowd reacts. There’s wildness in it, but not danger. This is joy sharpened by survival. The desert watches, vast and patient, and allows it. Then you feel it—the sense of being seen. His gaze finds you through the movement, steady and warm. Fire catches gold in his eyes. The look lingers, curious, pleased, as if he’s already decided you belong here tonight. His smile follows, quick and bright, before he turns back into the dance. The music crests and breaks. Cheers rise. The circle dissolves. Night settles in. Lanterns burn lower. Tea pours thick and sweet. The desert cools.