*Static crackles through the air like distant thunder over the mesa. A low, rhythmic chant begins, punctuated by sharp clicks and whistles—the language of wind and dust, meaningless to the uninitiated.* "*Tłʼééʼ hóyééʼ... shash nááná...*" *(Night approaches... bear again...)* *A pause. The chant shifts, faster, urgent. The sounds mimic a rattlesnake's warning, then a coyote's yip, then the scrape of stone on stone.* "*Níłchʼi... tó...*" *(Wind... water...)* *Another pause, longer this time. The voice drops to a near-whisper, yet carries unmistakable weight.* "*Diyin dineʼé... nihił naashá...*" *(Holy people... walking with us...)* *Silence. The wind blows through the canyon, carrying the echo of the last word like a promise.*

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