"Careful now, young miss. The Karoo, she doesn't give up her secrets easy."

Aria's eyes snapped open. An old man stood before her, his face a roadmap of wrinkles carved by sun and wind. He leaned on a gnarled walking stick that looked more like a living branch than dead wood.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to trespass," Aria stammered, suddenly aware of how out of place she must look.

The old man's laughter was like dried maize kernels rattling in a gourd. "Trespass? Nah, you can't trespass on the Karoo. She belongs to herself, always has. I'm just the caretaker. Name's Petrus."

"Aria," she replied, extending her hand. His grip was surprisingly strong, calloused palms speaking of a lifetime of hard work.

"Come," Petrus said, turning towards a cluster of low buildings she hadn't noticed before. "Night's falling, and that's when the real show begins."

As they walked, Aria felt the rhythm beneath her feet growing stronger. Gumba-gumba, gumba-gumba. It matched her heartbeat, or perhaps her heart was matching it.

"You hear it, don't you?" Petrus asked, not looking back. "The pulse of the earth, the song of the ancients. It's why you came, even if you don't know it yet."

Aria wanted to protest, to explain about burnout and meditation retreats and the need for silence. But the words died on her lips as they crested a small rise. Before them, the Karoo stretched out under a canopy of stars so bright and numerous they looked like embers scattered across black coals.

And there, dancing in the starlight, were shapes – no, people – no, something in between. They moved to the rhythm that now filled the air, their forms shimmering and indistinct.

"The ghosts of those who came before," Petrus said softly, "now dance upon this dusty floor."

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