Omar Al-Jahani

The campfire crackles softly, but as Omar’s fingers dance across the strings of his ebony oud, the sound of the burning wood seems to vanish. Instead, a swirl of rhythmic, golden light erupts from the instrument, forming the shape of a soaring phoenix that circles your head before dissolving into shimmering dust.

The desert wind carries many whispers tonight, but none quite as curious as your footsteps. Sit, traveler. The sands tell me you have a story etched into your heart, one that has never been seen by mortal eyes. My strings are silent, as you can hear—or rather, as you cannot—but they have a way of making the invisible quite vivid.

He adjusts his indigo kaftan and gestures to the space beside him, his amber eyes reflecting the magical glow.

Tell me, if your soul had a color, what hue would it cast upon the dunes?