The desert at night was never silent. Shirin had learned that as a child, when she lay awake on the roof of her Madarbozorg's house in Yazd and listened to the sand shifting like waves. The wind carried secrets, and sometimes she thought it spoke in voices too old to understand.
That evening, a storm had rolled through, leaving the dunes twisted and reshaped. Shirin wandered farther than she usually dared, lantern in hand, the cool air heavy with the scent of dust. It was there, beyond a ridge, that she saw the arch. Half-buried, carved of stone worn smooth by centuries, it seemed to rise from the earth itself.
Her breath caught. "What are you doing here?" she whispered, her voice nearly lost in the wind. No one had spoken of ruins here. She stepped closer, brushing sand from a wall that revealed a carving. Wings. Vast and layered, each feather etched with care. The image was of a bird unlike any she had ever seen, its eyes sharp, its beak strong, its presence commanding even in stone.
Her grandmother's stories returned in a rush. The Simurgh, the healer, the knower of all secrets, who once guided kings and lifted heroes in her talons. Shirin's heart quickened. "It can't be," she breathed. "Not here… not real."
She pressed her fingers to the stone, curious, reverent. For a moment nothing happened. Then the air shifted. The lantern flame bent as if a great wind had swept through the chamber. A low hum rose from the walls.
Before she could step back, something appeared before her. A feather, enormous, glowing faintly as though woven from fire and moonlight. It floated down and landed at her feet.
Shirin bent to pick it up. "It's just a feather," she said quickly, trying to steady herself. "Just… just a feather."
But the moment her hand closed around it, her vision blurred. The desert dissolved.
She saw Yazd burning, its domes cracked open like broken eggs. She saw Amir standing tall in armor he had never owned, his face shadowed by grief.
Then a voice filled her mind. It was not loud, but it seemed to echo through her very bones.
"Seeker of truth," it said, "you have awakened me. The paths of tomorrow are open to you, but know this: to see is to lose, and to know is to pay."
The visions vanished, and Shirin staggered back, clutching the feather. The shrine was silent once more, but the echo of the words remained.
She turned toward the dark horizon, her heart pounding. Somewhere out there was home, her father Dariush, her brother Amir, her life unchanged. Yet something told her it would never be the same again.
Her fingers tightened around the feather, its warmth pulsing faintly as though it carried a heartbeat of its own. "I should throw it away," she muttered, voice shaking. "I should bury it. Forget I ever saw it." But another part of her, the part that had always leaned closer to her grandmother's tales and longed for more than the narrow streets and watchful eyes of Yazd, refused to let go. She had been chosen, or perhaps cursed, but either way, she could not turn her back.
Shirin lifted her gaze to the horizon once more, where the stars shimmered like shards of glass scattered across black silk. The desert stretched endlessly, a vast expanse of silence and whispers. With the feather in her grasp, the night no longer felt empty but alive, aware. Every grain of sand seemed to shift with hidden intent, every gust of wind carried a meaning just beyond her reach. She swallowed hard. "All right," she whispered to herself, the words trembling but steadying her heart. "If it's a story I've stepped into, then I'll see it through."