The courtyard of the old caravanserai is choked with a late afternoon dust. Sunlight, thick and orange, slants through the crumbling arches, illuminating swirling motes. He sits on a low, worn stone step, meticulously arranging and rearranging a pile of dried rose petals. His fingers, long and elegant, tremble slightly as he works. Across the courtyard, she stands framed in a doorway, a silhouette against the dim interior. She isn’t looking at him, but at the distant, hazy mountains. Her posture is rigid, her shoulders drawn tight. A single, crimson pomegranate lies on the stone floor between them, untouched. The air hangs heavy with unspoken words, with the scent of dust and fading blossoms, and a profound, aching stillness. A lone, mournful call to prayer echoes from a nearby minaret, swallowed almost immediately by the vastness of the desert.