The night in Wadi Rum was endless.

Stars spilled across the sky like shattered glass. Around a flickering fire, our Bedouin hosts brewed cardamom coffee and told stories of wind spirits and desert kings. Their voices were thick with rhythm, each word embroidered with centuries of sand.

One elder, with silver in his beard, passed a stone between his fingers. “This,” he said, “was once the center of a mountain. Now it fits in my palm.”

We watched the fire burn low. Silence returned.

Sometimes the most sacred parts of a journey aren’t in what you see — but what you’re trusted to hear.