Leila and the workers are pouring soil over the backing structure and creating the facade's decorati

Leila arrived before the sun, when the city’s breath is still a rumor and the site wears its dust like a shy dress. The workers moved in a patient chorus, a circle of figures bent at the waist or standing tall, each with the same quiet intention that marks a ritual more than a job. They wore gloves flecked with clay, sleeves rolled up, faces smeared with the pale dust of a thousand mornings. The retaining wall behind them was a sleeping giant, its rough stoniness a map of years, of rain and heat and the patient ache of building a city piece by piece. The soil came in wheelbarrows, heavy and yielding, dark as a shadow that chose not to hurry. Leila stood at the edge of the platform, arms loose, as if she were waiting for a note to drop from an unseen score. Her hair braided close to her head caught the pale light, and in her eyes there was a kind of tenderness that belongs to people who listen to places before they tell them what to do. She did not bark