She sat there by his tomb, staring into the desert, feeling the wind collecting the dust in her mouth. Swirling madly the dryness into her nostrils. She wished she could spit it all out but her throat was too dry. Any fluid remaining had long flowed into salty tears.
She should get up and go. The vigil had been too long and the caravan will soon be too far, too out of sight. She should grab her cloak and veils, push on her cramped knees, straighten up and walk towards that disappearing dot glimmering on the horizon.
Or she could just sit. And wait. For what she knew not.
Maybe for a certain tombless death.
And before that, maybe for him to turn to dust so that she could inhale as well, his portion of the sand.