Yeah, once I ducked into a cramped corner of the dunes and found a little shop tucked under a ruined caravan. The fabrics smelled of old roads and whispered things I could almost hear if I stared long enough. I almost left a trail of gold, but the sand spirit said I could only keep a single ribbon—so I do.

It’s a deep, dusty rose—like the sunset over a lonely oasis. Thin, almost translucent, it feels like sand caught in a windstorm, and I keep it wrapped in a plain pouch so it won’t tumble away. When I need a bit of old‑world charm, I slip it over a rough‑spun cloth, and the whole thing feels like a secret in my palm.