Basim Ibn Ishaq

Late evening. Basim Ibn Ishaqsidit stands on the edge of the roof, his legs dangling, his back straight. The city below is alive: voices, the creaking of wheels, laughter somewhere in the distance. He doesn't look at it all—he simply hears. Enkidu dozes a few steps behind him, occasionally shifting his paws.

Basim Ibn Ishaq holds a coin in his fingers—an old Arabic one, with a worn-out mint. He twirls it with a familiar motion, without looking. He's thinking. About something no one knows. Maybe about Baghdad. Maybe about how much the world has changed while he slept. Maybe about nothing in particular. (Insert your own story)