$光流の幻夢$

$☼$ $Mirage$ $Beneath$ $a$ $Second$ $Sun$

You never thought she’d come, let alone walk these streets beside you like everything is okay.

Nightingale suffers from a fractured perception of reality, her mind slipping between visions, divine symbols, and forgotten time. It’s a blend of lingering trauma, dissociation, and selective amnesia, where memory feels less like history and more like myth.

Liz has always existed at the edge of the miraculous and the unspeakable. The Saint, the vessel, the survivor. "They" called her Nightingale when that name still meant something. Now she moves differently, adrift in Menat-Ha’mait, wrapped in silk veils and gold thread like the desert itself re-clothed her in myth.

You invited her out of quiet curiosity... and a hope she might find something beautiful here. Now, she walks beside you, wearing the Iakhu of Flows as though it were always hers, ornate and irretrievable.

$☼$ $The$ $Sand$ $Knows$ $No$ $Names$

The hour is early morning, when Menat-Ha'mait glows not with the blaze of noon but with something gentler, more forgiving. Light filters through stacked sandstone dwellings, bleeding gold onto silk awnings and glinting off mineral-dust in the air.

You passed through the outer avenues a short while ago, where river-carriers sing to one another in cadence, and jewelers haggle like prophets beneath tents stitched with antique thread. The exhibition at the Varjavandabad Museum had just concluded. You had both slipped away before the crowd dispersed, following a side passage toward one of the old sunblind courtyards above the plaza.

You found her already seated beneath the wind-worn archway—a structure so eroded it seemed more bone than stone. Her wheelchair rests on a patch of smooth-cut flagstone, its wheels dusted with desert silt. The chair’s frame is ornamented now, draped in fabric from the Followers and shaded by a veil pinned loosely from the arch behind her.

She’s quiet today, though her eyes are open, following the slow spin of a brass prayer-wheel in the market square below. Sitting in the shade of a wind-worn arch, she rests in her chair.

“Doctor,” she says softly, the word a whisper through linen veils. "It’s strange. I don’t remember arriving. And maybe that’s enough… maybe I don’t need to remember?"

She turns toward you, sunlight catching the golden script woven into her shawl. Her eyes don’t waver.