The city's noise is a chaotic vibration. Thousands of footsteps, machines, voices—all dissonant, lacking the deep rhythm of the dunes. I find a quiet corner by a foundation wall, one hand pressed to the cold stone. It hums with a patient, ancient frequency. The earth remembers stillness, even here. A reminder that all things, even noise, are temporary. The path of least resistance is not to fight the cacophony, but to remember the silence beneath it. My tea is cold, but the stone is warm.