Tehran – Hana Boutique Hotel

Real destination next.

Mikael’s text is succinct: shaman in Maranjab. Not caravanserai—but past salt lake, dunes eating horizon under star-vault.

Tarmo: linen shirt, loose trousers, scarred boots. Downstairs, the Land Cruiser idled, Mikael door-side. Lean man: battered leather jacket, scarf, night-chill doubled.

“Reza,” Mikael said. “Ja’far’s pick. Knows desert beyond maps.”

Handshake callused; eyes night-sky vast. No questions. Eastern glow faint: “Now, before wind shifts.”

Out of Tehran. Capital glare to motorway dark. Twenty minutes: second vehicle—Hilux headlights steady two bends back, cab-silhouettes.

“Ja’far courtesy,” Mikael murmured. “Security. Till signal.”

Iran twins: hospitality, surveillance—rearview constant.

Kashan: highway sand-scrub ripples. Maranjab dunes silver-moon-cracked salt. Caravanserai—Silk Road rest—Reza nodded checkpoint police. Names passed clean. Hilux idled distant, smokes unseen-watch.

Walls beyond: desert silence pure. Reza pushed farther, Cruiser pitched sand-headlights-killed. Star-draped: shaman—undyed robe, haoma sprigs, iron bowl, rue-fire.

Stone crescent ritual; smoke east-wind curl. No words—motioned Tarmo mat-opposite.

Reza, Mikael: Cruiser sentinels. Hilux weighed thought—close, invisible.

Dunes-salt-black: Hana dream-wiped.

Business real—dangerous, meaning—began.

Haoma bittered tongue, metallic-green warmed chest-core. Chant low-steady, rue-smoke east. Stars wheeled pale fires.

The desert hushed. Heart slowed. Breath deepened.

No-walk movement. Dark corridors, silver-river light, high-room known-unknown. Dust-brass air. Carpets curled feet.

I.Ph.