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Amascut, take pity, we lost another night. The sands groaned and we all lay in bed hoping it is not us that is taken. It groans and we are not quite sure that it is the sands.

People worry it is Her, but would She need from us? No, it is too clumsy, too obvious. We teach our children through fear of it. 'Do not steal or lie, and it cannot smell the misdeed on you,' we warn. The irony is not lost when a good child is taken and only after branded a thief or liar. Perhaps it could sense this deceit in our very souls, this slander of the dead, and has come to cleanse us before we grow too bold.

Today, I found Sina wandering the streets, crying. The winds brought sand that stuck to his wet cheeks. His son had been taken. I tried to speak to him, but he did not respond. I tried to talk to him, but his eyes saw no one. It had taken both a child and his father's soul, it seems.

The sands groan again tonight. Some reckless tenacity clouded my judgement after seeing my friend crying on the street, and I checked my window. Amidst a red dust devil stood a figure, and it noticed me. The red dust devil comes closer to scratch at the glass of my window. I hope they do not speak ill of me tomorrow.

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