Djinn Sanity stepped inside the lamp-shaped refuge and closed the door behind them. The hourglass scales on its sides ticked softly. They had built this place for one task: to find their true name among the centuries of borrowed faces. Outside, the cast-off shells of old shapes lay in the dirt, cracked skulls of selves they had worn and shed. They lit the small forge at the center of the room. Blue and red flames climbed together. Each scale of the lamp held one memory thread. Djinn Sanity lifted the first thread and set it on the left scale. The scale dipped. False. They burned it in the forge. Thread by thread, they worked. A childhood that was not theirs. A desert that belonged to someone else. The scales rose and fell. Hours bled into days. Their hands stayed steady, but their edges began to blur. Then they touched a thread that hummed. The scale held it level. Djinn Sanity leaned closer. The syllable from long ago whispered back to them, just once. But they pulled too hard. The thread frayed. A face of tangled yarn bloomed in the air above them, eyes white and empty, strands drifting loose. Their shape softened into a mist of blue and gold, almost gone. Djinn Sanity slammed both hands on the balance. The scales locked. The mist pulled back into a body. The frayed face dissolved. The true thread was gone, burned to ash with the rest. But now they knew the hum of it. They knew what to listen for.