Tariq did not look back. He simply could not. The desert stretched out, endless and indifferent to those who perished on the pass. Dunes shifted in the night, the slow breathing of a great beast. The others had fallen behind, but he could still hear their footsteps weaving through the hollow cries of the wind. If they stopped, they would be caught. If they faltered, they would disappear.

The border was close now—just over the next ridge, past the rusted wire fences and the mine-riddled ground. Beyond it lay the promise of safety, of a life beyond war and hunger. But getting there was the real test. The soldiers patrolled the sands, their boots leaving deep imprints in the soil, and their bullets found anyone who dared to run.

And there were other things, things that hid in the shadows of the dunes, moved without living footprints, that whispered when the wind was still, waiting for the desperate. The Nameless Ones. The elders spoke of them, spirits of the lost, those who perished in the crossing of desert and had never been buried, never been mourned. But myths and fireside tales were not what killed in the desert. Guns were, and Tariq had already seen too many die at their hands. 

Before the desert, before the endless running there had been home. Home. Once, home was more than a word. It had been his mother’s laughter, a gentle hand in his hair, the sound of his father’s voice across the alleyway. It had been the city square, alive with the clamor of merchants, bright woven tapestries hanging from stalls, the smell of spice floating in the air.

Then the war came. Starting with whispers of distant villages burning to the ground, people vanishing overnight. Then came the soldiers, their trucks rolling through the streets, their rifles slung casually over their shoulders as they searched for traitors and rebels, for anyone who even looked the wrong way. The day they dragged his father from their home, Tariq had watched from the rooftop. His mother’s screams and begs had bought no mercy as the now familiar rattle of bullet fire echoing through the street.

After that, the days blurred. His mother tried to protect him, to keep him inside, to shield him from what was happening. But how do you shield a child from a city unraveling at the seams? How do you make a boy believe in safety when he watches his neighbors executed in the streets, when he learns to distinguish the whistle of mortar fire from the sharp crack of a gunshot?

The day his mother died; Tariq had not been home. He had been sent to fetch water from the well and had taken the long way around, to avoid the soldiers. He had heard the gunfire before he saw the bodies. He had known, long before he turned the corner, that his mother would not be waiting for him when he returned.

He had not cried. Not then. There had been no time.

The next morning, he buried her in the courtyard and left the city behind. The journey was long—, days of walking through abandoned villages, stealing what little food he could find. And when he finally reached the edge of the desert and found the smugglers who promised safe passage over the border for a price, he had nothing left to give but his name.

He was here now, running for his life, chasing the fragile promise of a future he could not imagine. He forced himself onwards, legs burning, breath running ragged. The moon hung, cold and silver. Ahead, he could see the faint border of the fence. Not much farther. 

Then, he heard it.

Soft and familiar, calling his name.

Tariq staggered; his momentum nearly breaking. He whipped his head around, scanning the darkness. The others were still moving, their shapes barely visible against the sand. But the voice had come from somewhere else. Somewhere close.

He swallowed hard and kept running. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

The stories said the Nameless Ones lured the living with voices from the past, with people they had lost. Tariq knew better. His mother was dead. His father had been gone for years. There was no one left to call his name. It couldn’t be.

And yet, there it was. 

“Tariq.” 

A whisper, cutting through the howling wind. His chest tightened. He had to move, he needed to. The group was climbing the ridge ahead, they would cross the border soon. Just then, the sands shifted beneath him, a deliberate movement. His feet sank an inch deeper into the sand, the air around him growing thick and heavy, pressing against his ears. 

A figure, thin and twisted rose out of the sand, wisps of sand shrouding its face. The thing raised its hand, extending it towards him. Tariq’s heart slammed against his ribs. He tried stepping back but the sand held him tighter. It cocked its head, eyes black like pits. 

“Tariq,” it said again. This time, it wasn’t a whisper. It was his mother’s voice. His stomach turned to ice. He had not heard that voice since men in uniforms and guns had come to their home and left her broken on the street. She was gone. She had to be gone. The thing took a step closer, its movements not disturbing the sand. “Come home, my son.” Tariq clenched his fists. The group was nearly at the fence now. If he hesitated any longer, he would be left behind. He forced his gaze away from the thing, from the voice, from the impossible. 

“Not real,” he whispered to himself. “Not real.” He tore his foot from the sand, wrenching himself free, wrenching himself away. He ran. 

Behind him, the whisper turned into a wail. A high, keening sound that sliced through the air, through his skull, through his bones. His mother’s scream.

“Tariq!”

He didn’t stop. He didn’t turn back.

He reached the ridge, falling to his hands and knees as he pulled himself up. Below, the fence stretched out like a skeletal beast, its barbed wire gleaming under the moon. The others were already at the base, cutting through, slipping under.

Tariq stumbled down the slope. The sound of his name still echoed behind him, but he did not listen. He did not look. He did not breathe until his hands were on the metal, until he was dragging himself through the gap, ignoring the sharp sting as the wire bit into his skin.

And then—

He was through.