The Harp in the Sand
Decades passed.
Winds shaped the land where Amira once walked. Her footprints faded, but her melody remained, etched into the soil like veins of gold.
Children found the harp buried in the dunes—its strings now vines, its wood humming with stories. They gathered around it, and even without knowing how, they played.
Not songs of sorrow.
But songs of becoming.
The Sea's Whisper
The Sea of Whispers no longer murmured of pain. It told tales of healing, of those who crossed the rift and returned different—full of memory, brimming with light.
Fishermen claimed they saw a woman walking the waves at dawn, her silhouette crowned in feathers and wind. Birds followed her. So did stars.
Some said it was Amira.
Others said it was the song itself, given form.
Sky of Remembering
Above the world, constellations rearranged themselves. The Eleventh String now stretched from horizon to horizon, a thin glowing thread that connected cities, villages, hearts.
When lovers wept beneath the stars, they heard music in the silence.
When children were born, the sky pulsed.
When someone died, the Eleventh String vibrated softly—saying goodbye.
But no one ever truly vanished.
They became verses in the sky.
A World Rewoven
Rafa's garden became a sanctuary.
Zuberi's laughter was taught in schools.
Morya's library grew without bricks—carried in dreams, where every sleeper turned page after page of untold hope.
And Kelu? He taught children how to listen—not just with ears, but with soul.
A Song with No End
In a quiet glade under a baobab tree, a little girl once asked her grandmother:
"Is the story over?"
And the old woman, her eyes reflecting galaxies, replied:
"No, my dear. It's just between verses."
Thus ends Book 7: Wings Beneath the Wounded Sky.
Seven books. Seven songs.
And still, the wind hums something new.