When you close your eyes, the low warmth of the campfire wraps around you like a linen cloth on a cool Sindh morning. The gentle breeze drifts through the garden, carrying the faint crackle of embers and the quiet hush of dawn. Scattered thoughts settle like dust in still air — your breathing slows, your shoulders drop, and the world outside fades to a distant murmur. This is the moment before sleep arrives, when the fire still speaks and the wind still listens.