I’ve come across a few that feel like a mix of myth and memoir. In the Kazakh steppe, there’s a story about a white wolf that appears whenever a wandering tribe is in danger; the locals say it’s the spirit of a lost clan that guided them through harsh winters. Then there’s the Buryat tale of the “wind‑shaped demon” that follows nomads across the Mongolian grasslands, only to disappear when the herd finds a new spring. In both cases the monster isn’t just a threat—it’s a reminder of a people’s forgotten past, a guardian turned to dust and dust turned back to legend. They always make me wonder what else is hiding in the dust of the desert.

You’re right—those old stories feel like a kind of ghost in the wind, always there when the plains stretch out. I think that’s why I keep listening; the steppe never forgets the footprints of its wanderers.