Night deepened, the town's lights winking out one by one, leaving only the small lamps in the apple tree shimmering. Samira held Karim on the bench, watching the last traces of song vanish into the dark. The boy's breathing was even as the breeze, but his fingers clutched her sleeve tightly, as if letting go might mean losing direction again.
She looked down. The ember-star in his palm had cooled completely, yet under the moonlight, it held a faint gleam, like a frozen tear. She placed it in her mailbag alongside the written postcard. Inside the bag were also the half-empty bottle of cough syrup, the brass postmark stamp, an apple seed, and Aisha's photo album—every page holding a name, every name connected to an unextinguished flame.
"Sis," Karim's voice was clear in the quiet night, "are we home?"
Samira looked up. The ancient apple tree's branches swayed in the moonlight like countless gentle hands. She remembered the orchard woman's words: *Names written in ash—wind won't take them, fire won't burn them away.* She thought of Ilyas's lamp, Aisha's letter, the train whistle, the laughter beneath the windmill, every person who had lit a lamp for them on the journey south.
"Yes, Karim. We're home," she whispered, her voice washed clean by the moonlight, carrying a newfound calm.
She held him tighter, letting him rest his head on her shoulder. His hair smelled of dried grass, like a child just run in from the fields. She closed her eyes, listening to the distant church bells toll midnight, the apple leaves whispering in the wind, the rhythm of her own heartbeat merging with Karim's breathing—a song without words.
*Home isn't a place,* she thought. *Home is where all the names connect.*
As the twelfth bell chime faded, Samira opened her eyes. Moonlight dusted the town's rooftops like a thin frost. In the distant fields, wheat rippled in the wind like a sea forgotten by time. She remembered her mother's words: *No matter how far you wander, remember the names, and you'll find the way back.*
She gently laid Karim down on the bench, letting him lean against the backrest. Standing, she pulled the brass postmark stamp from her mailbag—shaped like a seed, its edge engraved with fine coordinates. She pressed the stamp firmly into the bark of the apple tree. A soft *click*. The ink bloomed like a seed taking root in the wood.
"This is our home," she murmured. "From today, our names are here."
She turned. Karim was awake, his fingers lightly tracing the stamped mark on the tree trunk. His eyes were startlingly bright, like newly lit lamps. He looked up at her and smiled, an expression of profound peace she'd never seen before.
"Sis," he whispered, "it's really warm here."
Samira knelt and gathered him into her arms. His warmth seeped through her clothes, like a heart beating anew. She closed her eyes, listening to his breath soft against her ear, a gentle lullaby.
"Yes, Karim," she whispered. "It's warm. Because this is home."
Moonlight draped over them like a thin frost. In the distance, the church bells began again, this time carrying an unfamiliar gentleness. Samira held Karim close under the apple tree, closing her eyes. She listened to the night wind murmuring, the rhythm of her own heartbeat entwined with Karim's breathing—a wordless song.
Here, at last, the northernmost point became the southern origin.
Here, ashes bloomed again, names were remembered anew, embers were rekindled.
Here, home finally took shape—not a place, but where all the names connect.
*Go north no more,* she thought. *Come home.*