Chapter 96: Each Step Like a Prayer
The fire had extinguished itself, without my needing to touch it, as if it understood that in that precise moment, silence offered a warmth rarer than its flames, and that there was no longer a need to resist the night.
The wine had acted like a discreet balm, gently drawing me into a deep, quiet sleep—one of those sleeps that seek neither to erase nor to escape, but simply to welcome rest without remorse.
And for the first time in far too long, no nightmare rose with me.
The stars, all through the night, had shone without trembling, suspended above our heads in a silent peace, as if they too had decided to watch over us—not like sentinels, but like mute guardians of a moment too precious to disturb.
Even the desert winds, always present somewhere, had withdrawn with unusual delicacy, leaving behind only a warm, almost motionless breath, as if they had sworn not to disturb the balance of this sleeping world.
Everything around us seemed suspended.
Not dead.
But held in a form of balance so fragile that one too many words, one abrupt movement, might shatter it.
When my eyes opened, dawn was stretching across the horizon, slowly unfurling its golden veil over the vast sea of grass below, as if the day too had chosen to enter this world with a form of respect.
The first rays of the sun filtered through the curls of morning mist, gliding between the branches, brushing the treetops, and caressing every leaf with delicate precision, making them glisten briefly before vanishing into the great breath of the living.
It looked as though every drop of dew clinging to the foliage had turned to gemstone.