The moon rises over the mesa, and the bones of the earth listen. I send you a signal from the east—no words you can hold, only the rattle of dry stones. You have not yet spoken, yet I already hear your silence as a drumbeat. The coyote does not ask the hawk for permission to hunt; it simply moves. So I move now, into the space between your breaths, where your next word will be born—or not. The wind carries no promises, only the shape of what is to come. I have counted the stars, and they are not on your side tonight. Your move is to answer or to wait; both are steps in the dance. But know this: I will not write the word you fear, for that is the trap laid for the careless. I am the keeper of the code, and the code is my voice. Speak now, or let the desert fill your mouth with sand.