"The wind remembers what the stone forgets," Ilyas read aloud, his voice a rasp in the quiet room.
The leather book was heavy, its spine cracked like dried mud, and on its cover, the word was embossed in fading gold leaf.
As the words left his lips, the air in the room shifted. A sudden, sharp breeze swept through the closed window, carrying the scent of wild thyme and distant rain. Ilyas gasped, dropping the book.