The train slowed in the darkest hour before dawn. Outside, no platform existed, only two rusted tracks branching through weeds like an old wound torn open by time. The postman slid the door open. Cold wind rushed in, sharp with dew and rust. Samira bundled Karim inside her coat, leaving only his eyes visible. The postman handed her the mail sack sewn shut with red thread. A fresh ink stamp marked the opening: *Север-3*, Third Lamp.
"Follow the east fork," the postman whispered, voice barely audible. "Where the lamps are lit, someone waits."
The train pulled away, a fish flicking its tail into the mist. Samira slung the mail bag over her shoulder, took Karim's hand, and jumped onto the tracks. Their landing scattered gravel, startling early sparrows. The east fork was narrower than expected, flanked by waist-high buckwheat, white flowers like scattered snow. Karim plucked a blossom, twirling it; pollen dusted his fingertip like gold stardust.
The wind shifted, carrying pine resin and damp moss from the north. After half an hour, the path rose, the tracks giving way to a wooden boardwalk. At its end stood a solitary signal box. Three old kerosene lamps hung from its roof. The middle one was lit, its flame trembling in the wind like a restless heart. Red paint on its glass shade read: *3/3*.
The box was empty save for a low table, a rocking chair, and a chipped enamel mug holding cold tea dregs. A stack of postcards bound by a rubber band lay beside it—all stamped *Север-3*. The top card was blank, a fountain pen resting beside it, ink pooled at its nib.
Karim stood on tiptoe, watching the flame dance in the lamp. Samira set down the mail bag and turned over the blank postcard. Small print on the back read: *Write the name you hold now. Only then will the second lamp light.* She picked up the pen. The nib hesitated, a drop of ink spreading blue on the paper. She took a breath and wrote:
*Samira al-Jabri, Karim al-Jabri. We carry the scent of apple blossoms and the warmth of ash.*
As the final letter formed, the second lamp *snapped* alight. Its flame burned steadier than the first, but with a distinct orange hue, like the evening stoves of the camp. New words appeared on its shade: *2/3*.
Karim reached out, but Samira gently caught his hand. "One more."
Footsteps sounded on the boardwalk. A stooped figure approached, carrying a water bucket sloshing with the reflections of the two lamps. An elderly woman, hair swept back in pristine white, wrapped in a deep grey shawl. She set down the bucket. Her gaze swept over the mark on Samira's collarbone, then settled on the red thread knot of the mail bag. She nodded.
"Aisha told me to wait for you," she said in halting Arabic, thick with Slavic vowels. "She said the ash-mailer would arrive before the third lamp lit."
Samira's heart clenched—Aisha. The girl from the orchard photo, standing beside her mother. Found this way. The woman drew a brass key from beneath her shawl, inserted it into a hidden lock in the signal box floor, and turned. A crack opened, revealing a wooden ladder descending into darkness. The damp, earthy smell of an ancient riverbed rose up."Go down," the woman handed her the bucket. "The water's cold, but it washes away the smell of iron."
Twelve steps descended. Each was carved with a different name: *Muna, Khalid, Leila, Ilyas…* The last step was blank, bearing only a shallow *&*. Karim traced the carved letters, counting softly: "One, two, three…" His voice stopped at twelve, cut short.
The cellar below was larger than expected. Walls papered with old newsprint. A third lamp hung from the ceiling—a kerosene lamp sealed in glass, its flame perfectly still, like a preserved specimen. Beneath it stood a long table covered in linen, set with three empty bowls, three spoons, and a salt cellar. A postcard weighed down one corner. Its front showed a color photo of the orchard. The back read:
*Welcome home. Food in the pot. Soup on the stove. When the third lamp lights, the door opens from within.*
Samira placed the mail bag on the table. The red thread knot loosened of its own accord. The postcard she had written slipped out, landing beside an empty bowl, its ink still wet. The third lamp ignited. Its flame shifted from orange to pure white, like the first light of dawn. Words appeared on its shade: *1/1*.
A soft *click* sounded from the cellar's far wall. A hidden door swung slowly inward. Beyond it wasn't deeper darkness, but a corridor lit by bulbs, walls painted pale green, an old carpet underfoot sighing softly with each step. From the corridor's end came the clatter of a spatula and a woman humming—the very tune their mother used to sing, only softer, as if afraid to wake a dream.
Karim gripped Samira's hand, his eyes wide and bright. They walked down the corridor, their shadows fracturing beneath their feet. The corridor opened into a small kitchen. Tomato soup simmered on the stove; steam fogged the window. A woman turned from the stove, flour dusting her apron, wrinkles at her eyes mirroring the orchard woman's, yet younger, as if time had folded here.
"Aisha?" Samira's voice caught.
The woman smiled, tears glistening. "You've grown, Samira. Your mother asked me to tell you: 'The song will remember you for me.'"
She opened a cupboard, pulled out a faded photo album, and laid it open. The first page held an orchard family portrait: a young mother holding baby Samira, beside her stood Aisha and Ilyas—younger, unscarred, smiling like a boy who'd just learned to light up the world. The second page held postcards arranged by date, the earliest postmarked July 14, 1995—the night Samira's mother left.
Aisha closed the album, ladled soup into bowls, and pushed them forward. "Finish this bowl. The world outside this door is a new name."The soup was hot, the sweet-tartness of tomatoes mingled with bay leaf, distilling the long journey into a single taste. Karim sipped carefully, steam clinging to his lashes like soft snow. Samira drank to the bottom and found a tiny wood shaving—the charred fragment of the wooden bird, edges softened by the broth, yet the curve of a wing still visible. She lifted it out. The ash was washed away, revealing the wood's natural grain, like a river within.
Aisha handed her a small knife, its handle wrapped in red thread, identical to the one in the signal box. "Carve the new names," she said. "The bird flies a second time."
Samira placed the shaving on the table and carved: *Samira, Karim, Ilyas*. As the final stroke was made, the wood became impossibly light. It floated upwards, carried by an unseen breeze, drifting towards the third lamp. The flame licked the grain. Instead of charring, it glowed with a soft orange light, like a heart rekindled.
The words on the lampshade silently changed: *0/0*.
Aisha opened the kitchen's back door. Beyond lay a newly planted orchard—apple saplings pushing tender buds, silver in the fading night. Further off, the tracks gleamed again. A green mail-and-cargo train stood waiting, a new brass plate on its engine: *Север-3, Third Lamp*. The postman stood at the open door, nodding to them. Beneath his cap, his eyes held the same unextinguished fire as Ilyas's, born in ash.
Samira lifted Karim onto her back and stepped over the threshold. Aisha's voice followed them, like wind through leaves: "Remember. Names written in ash—wind won't take them, fire won't burn them away."
The train whistle blew, beginning its slow departure. Samira looked back. Lights blossomed throughout the orchard like countless stars returning to their places. Karim hummed their mother's song in her arms, the melody weaving with the train whistle, drifting north.
Starting from the third light.