Farid let his hand fall from the oud ’s neck. The last note hung in the air for a long, impossible second—a Dūkāh in the maqam of Hijaz —before dissolving into the smoke.

He took a breath. He placed his right hand on the risha —the eagle feather pick. And he began.

Farid looked up. His eyes were two wounds. “The oud is dry,” he said. “No rain has fallen on its wood.”

Farid’s eyes snapped open. The rhythm had found him.