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Anna sat beside Amastan, Azul asleep against her breast, as a Greek woman named Callista plucked her oud and sang a haunting melody of exile and yearning.
Amastan closed his eyes, letting the music wash over the scars of his memory.
> This is what freedom sounds like, Anna thought, a hundred voices, no longer silenced, each singing the truth of their journey.
That evening, around the fires, voices rose in song. Freed women from Algiers, Hausa griots, Berber storytellers, and Andalusi musicians wove their languages into a single tapestry of sound.
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