Ilahi. Ilahi. Ilahi.
But the villagers grew uneasy. Whenever Zayd wove, the word Ilahi would appear in the weft, a shimmering, unstable glyph that seemed to move when you weren't looking directly at it. Livestock fell silent. Milk curdled. Children pointed at the rugs and whispered, "He is trying to weave God's name, and God is too vast to be contained."
And for just a moment, the veil is thin. The blind see. The silent sing. And the name that was once forbidden becomes the only thing that holds the desert together.