The heat was absolute, not just on the skin, but in the air itself, thick and still. I remember walking across the rocky plain in the late afternoon, each step stirring a puff of dust that smelled faintly sweet, like sun-warmed earth and something older beneath it. The sky stretched forever, colorless at the top and burning gold at the edges, and the wind moved in slow, deliberate sighs. Around me, the silence wasn’t empty, it pulsed, alive with the quiet creak of heat settling into stone and the faint, peppery scent of scrub and dried herbs crushed underfoot.

​

There was no rush. Just breath, step, breath. The resinous scent of frankincense drifted from a shrine set against the cliffside, mixing with the powdery sweetness of dried flowers left behind. I stood there for a long time, my shadow long behind me, watching the sunlight deepen into amber. It smelled of smoke, of stone, of time, vast and still. That moment didn’t ask for anything. It just was. And somehow, so was I. Even now, when I smell it, dry wood, warm spice, a breath of dust, I’m there again. A small figure in a vast space, perfectly at peace with the stillness.