It was a verse.
The seventh line. He didn't know the words. There were no words on the papyrus. But his grandmother's ghost, or the memory of her, or the tide itself, put them in his mouth:
In the crooked coastal town of Tahr-al-Bahr, no one sang anymore. The old ones said it was because the wind had changed, or because the sea had grown tired of listening. But Elias knew the real reason: they had forgotten Aghany Mnwt . aghany mnwt
On the sixth line, the stone spoke.
He never tried to sing it again. He didn't have to. Because from that morning on, whenever a child was born in Tahr-al-Bahr, the first sound they made wasn't a cry. It was a verse
Nothing came out at first—just a dry croak. He tried again, pushing from the bottom of his lungs. A note emerged. Wrong, shaky. He tried another. And another. He wasn't singing Aghany Mnwt ; he was fumbling toward it, a blind man reaching for a door.
He opened his mouth.
"Return what was borrowed. The tide forgets. But the stone keeps."