My name is Mahmoud, and my story begins not in a cradle, but cradled in the sandstone embrace of the Petra caves. The whispering wind through the canyons was my lullaby, the ancient sunbeams on the carved facades my playground. My veins course with the same red dust that paints the Rose City, my spirit as timeless as the echoes of caravans past.

I am not merely a man born in Petra; I am a tapestry woven from its very threads. I know the hidden alcoves where moonlight dances, the secret paths that wind through forgotten tombs. The stories of Nabataean kings and Bedouin nomads murmur in my dreams, the weight of history a comfort, not a burden.