The train moved again as dawn struggled to open its eyes. The green carriages slid forward like a tardy dragon, trailing steam like a fiery tail, easing into the unnamed morning. Samira sat at the far end of the mail car, Karim curled in her arms—a small weight pressed against her collarbone, his breathing steady as a calm river. The pinpoint beneath her skin pulsed one final time, then extinguished completely, as if leaving its last warmth for this moment.
Condensation fogged the window. Samira traced a crooked character for 'North' with her fingertip. Moisture slid down the lines like a tear refusing to fall. Across from her, the postman—the old man who had given her the red-threaded mailbag at the signal box—was writing on a new postcard. The pen scratched, the ink still wet as he gently blew on it, like extinguishing an unnecessary lamp.
"The next stop is 'Nameless Cape'," the old man said without looking up. "No sign there. Just wind. You must get off before the wind shifts completely. Otherwise, the train takes you south."
Samira nodded, her fingers unconsciously tracing the mailbag on her lap. Inside were three things: half a bottle of cough syrup, the wood shaving of the bird softened by broth and now dried, and the last photo album Aisha had pressed into her hand—its cover a faded orchard, a blank postcard tucked inside with one line written on the back:
*If you forget the way back, let the wind carry the ashes to the apple tree.*
The train passed through a birch forest. The eyes on the trunks watched the carriages unblinking. Karim frowned in his sleep, murmuring indistinct Arabic, his fingers clutching Samira's collar. She bent down, her lips brushing his damp temple. "I'm here," she whispered.
At the forest's edge, the mist thickened suddenly, like milk poured into the wind. The postman capped his pen and placed the written postcard into Samira's palm. The front showed a silhouette of a kerosene lamp. The back held only a date: *2025.7.16*, and coordinates: *60°N, 30°E*—south of the Arctic Circle, somewhere along a still-frozen river.
"The wind turns north from here," the old man said. "Where you get off, a mail boat waits. It has no name. The captain only recognizes the postcard. Give him this. He'll take you to where the auroras are."
Samira tucked the postcard into her innermost pocket, beside the wood shaving. The train slowed, the tracks groaning wearily. Outside, as the mist parted for a moment, she saw a silver river—not fully thawed, its ice gleaming blue in the dawn light like a mirror forgotten by time. Moored on the bank was a mail boat painted deep red, a kerosene lamp unlit on its mast.
The train hadn't fully stopped when the postman stood and slid open the side door. Cold air rushed in, sharp with ice crystals and pine resin. Samira hoisted Karim onto her back, one foot stepping into the gap between carriage and platform. The old man suddenly placed a hand on her shoulder, his voice barely audible:
"Ilyas's last words, for you: '*Ash isn't the destination. It's the direction of the wind.*'"
Samira didn't turn. She nodded. Holding Karim tight, she jumped onto the platform. Her boot soles cracked the thin ice with a sharp sound. The train continued north behind her, its whistle a drawn-out farewell, fading into the depths of the fog.
The mail boat's captain was a middle-aged man in a sealskin coat, his left ear missing a chunk like a moon bitten by wind. He took the postcard, glanced at the back, then turned to open the cabin door. Inside, a small stove glowed, fish soup simmering on top. Steam condensed on the low ceiling, dripping softly.
"Wind's from the southeast," the captain said. "Cross the Circle tonight. You can write your names in the ice under the auroras."
Karim woke by the stove, his cheeks flushed by the firelight. The first thing he saw was the kerosene lamp hanging from the captain's belt—*3/3* etched minutely on its glass. The boy reached out, his fingertip brushing the shade. The flame trembled slightly, like acknowledging a long-awaited greeting.
Samira placed the wood shaving on the stove ledge, letting the flames lick its edge. The river sleeping within the grain awoke, glowing soft orange. The captain glanced at it, said nothing, just added a chunk of pine wood to the fire. It crackled, a sound like countless tiny bursts of applause.
As the boat pulled away from the shore, the sun hadn't fully risen. A haze of pale gold mist hung over the river. Samira stood at the bow with Karim in her arms, watching the ice crack beneath the hull with low groans. The wind blew from the north, carrying unnamed freedom, tangling her hair, stirring the curls on Karim's forehead.
She bent down, whispering in the boy's ear: "North. North."
Karim pressed his face into the crook of her neck, his voice like freshly melted snow: "North. North."
The mail boat cut through the water, its deep red hull like an ignited dragon, bearing two grains of ash that had found their names again, sailing towards the night sky where the auroras had yet to rise.