The traveler looked at his hourglass. The blue sand had stopped falling. It hovered, suspended in the glass, captivated by the vibration of the strings. For a moment, the eternal machine of the universe had a hitch in its breath.

Elif didn't flinch. She looked at the hourglass; the sand was a shimmering, impossible blue, and only a few grains remained. She stepped back and gestured to the low table by her hearth. "The tea is still hot. It would be a shame to waste it. Sit."

The traveler stood up and pulled his cloak tight. He didn't pick up the hourglass. "The music has changed the rhythm of the sand," he whispered. "I cannot take what is still vibrating with such sound."

Elif finished the song. The silence that followed was heavy but sweet.

She sang the words of the old poets: "Var git ölüm, bir zaman da gene gel..." (Go away, death, and come back another time).

"It is time," the traveler said. His voice sounded like the wind through dry grass.