To heal it, Mara set out on a crossing none dared make. She sewed a sail from lantern-fruit skins and braided a rope from the hair of her village’s oldest storytellers. She took with her a small jar of Wilalila—bottled at dusk in a technique forbidden by some but practiced by those who loved the wind truly: you cup your hands, whistle the wind’s name, and close your fingers at the moment its lightless color pools within. In that jar the wind slumbered like a trapped thought.