When sleep finally comes, it is unkind.
It’s the same dream, but for the first time, there are differences.
I’m crouched in a wide clearing at dusk, leaning against a towering stone figure that looms above me. My fingers press into the rough surface, and I feel as though this carved giant is the only thing keeping me from drifting off into the purple sky. I only know I’m scared, and this stone shape offers a fragile sense of safety.
Beyond the statue, I glimpse someone else: the woman from the photograph. She clings to a tall figure who is veiled in shifting darkness. She grips its hand tightly, and I sense she’s bracing for a calamity neither of us can name. They both seem to search the clearing, scanning every inch as though a threat will erupt at any moment.
It does. Two violent gusts spiral out of nowhere, crashing straight into the statue with a thunderous crack. I flinch as a jagged fault runs across the stone until chunks begin to fall away. A streak of crimson trickles over the statue’s surface, staining it in a way that makes my stomach clench. The giant figure lurches forward, slamming to the ground with a sickening thud. Its protective weight is gone in an instant.
Before I can scramble backward, one of those swirling gusts seems to grow hands, seizing me around the waist. The grip is iron. My feet leave the ground; I try to fight, but it’s like wrestling a storm. The sound of my own heartbeat drums in my ears, and the clearing dims around me. I manage a final glance at the woman in the distance—she’s staring straight at me with urgency in her eyes. Then the wind yanks me away into the gloom, and everything vanishes.
I jolt awake. I don’t know where I am. The wind, the woman, and the unease all feel more real than the cold earth beneath me. One thing stands out above it all: the woman. She’s the one in the photograph.
Who is she?
I rub a hand against my branding mark, trying to steady my breathing. The vision has been the same for as long as I can remember, a loop playing in the background of my life. But now, it has shifted. The woman in the photograph was never there before.
I close my eyes and try to summon the earlier versions of the dream. Wasn’t it a child’s silhouette? Was there always the same sense of fear? I was always an observer, never in the action. It is smoke slipping between my fingers, holding onto something that was never solid to begin with.
Augustine of Hippo once wrote that the past does not exist. We cannot revisit it like a fixed point on a map. The past only exists in memory, and memory is unreliable. He argued that we hold time only in our minds: the past is a fading impression, the future an expectation, and the present a vanishing moment too brief to grasp.
I shudder.
This is only a dream, not my past.
I stare at the soft glow of dawn creeping over the horizon, trying to anchor myself to something real. I clench my fists. If the dream is changing, does that mean the past is shifting? It must. The Phylax changes the past so that humanity can survive in the future. Or maybe I am the one who is changing, and the truth has been waiting for me to finally see it.
I shake off the remaining anxiety. There’s no time to dwell on dreams. Sachu awaits.
I reach for my supplies and pull out a strip of dried meat, slowly chewing a few mouthfuls. I have to reach Sachu before my supplies run out. It will be close. I take another small sip of water, feeling the urgency in every drop that slides down my parched throat.
The air is cool before the day’s heat begins its relentless assault. I know this is the best time to make progress. I can’t waste it.
The sun rises behind me, casting golden light across the sand. It illuminates the dunes. Each one is another obstacle to conquer. I move with measured steps, conserving my energy. I sweep the terrain for any signs of danger.
The golden sea is tranquil in the morning light—a deception. I know that beneath its surface lie countless threats. I focus on the path forward, carefully choosing my route through the dunes’ slopes. The calmness stirs a memory of Philip’s lessons in the art of survival.
I remember the shift in his posture when he surveyed the terrain. He could see things that were invisible to me. He raised his hands, signing, Never trust what you first see, lad. Calm can hide danger.
We were in a forest then, the opposite of this barren wasteland. The same principle held. The trees were dense, their shade masking everything beneath the undergrowth. I was young and overconfident despite my lack of skill. I believed I had spotted everything—the footprints trailing to a stream, the bent grass hinting at a recent crossing.
When I stepped into the clearing, proud of my keen intuition, Philip grabbed my shoulder. I froze as he crouched and pointed to the ground.
He signed, Trap. Look closer.
I squinted, scanning the patch of earth I judged was clear. Then, I saw the glint of a wire nestled among the grass. A simple snare, perfectly veiled, waiting to snap.
Philip signed, An undisturbed surface means nothing. You must read the signs beneath. Look twice, then again. If you miss the signs, you die.
The lesson has stayed with me. It is even more relevant now than it was then. I scan the dunes again, the soft morning light unable to fool me. The desert camouflages its secrets, yet it won’t catch me unprepared.
Neither will my memories.
Philip’s lesson wasn’t only about survival. It was also about perception, the ability to see what is hidden and trust the signs others miss.
Some philosophers argued that time is not something external, ticking away in measured intervals. We feel time, which is shaped by experience and memory. We do not exist in a sequence of disconnected moments. We carry the past with us, and it defines who we are.
I recall the most significant details of Philip’s lesson. If memory is unreliable, then what do I have left? If time is just a collection of moments, memory is the thread that stitches them together. What I recall is real because it shapes me.
I glance at the horizon, where the dunes rise and fall like ocean waves, slowly changing with the continuity of time. The past is similar—always there. Even as the wind reshapes the surface, the foundation remains.
No, the past is not gone. It is alive in me. And that is something I can trust.
As the morning wears on, the light reveals details I hadn’t seen in the dawn’s earlier softness. That’s when I notice something unusual in the sand—a pattern cutting through the otherwise smooth desert floor.
I pause, crouching to get a better angle.
Tracks.
They stretch across the dune, a mix of footprints and hoof marks. I brush my fingers over the indentations. They’re fresh, the edges still sharp where the wind hasn’t touched them yet. Whoever made them passed through a few hours ago, at most.
I trace the tracks as they weave across the ground, disappearing over the next ridge. Traders? A caravan, maybe? It’s the most direct route from here to Sachu, after all. I search the horizon for movement. The expanse remains motionless.
The hoofprints are heavy, pressed deep into the sand—a sign of loaded animals. Likely, three horses, judging by the width. The footprints are uniform and evenly spaced. My stomach tightens. These aren’t the tracks of wandering merchants or harmless travelers.
They’re soldiers.
The realization sharpens my focus. Soldiers out here, on this route? There’s solely one reason for that. They’re hunting me.
The footprints are numerous. Five or six men are present. Their steps are also heavy. They will not be fast enough to outpace me.
I smirk to myself. These soldiers have made a mistake by passing me, leaving tracks so easy to follow. They might as well have lit a beacon in the open, inviting me to find them.
If I’m their intended prey, then the hunt is on. Except they have miscalculated. I’m no longer a cornered animal. I am the predator.
Excitement sparks. The fatigue in my legs vanishes. I roll my shoulders, feeling the tension shift. These soldiers don’t know who I am.
A new kind of clarity settles over me. The soldiers set the terms of this hunt, but the favorable outcome will be mine. My steps quicken as I follow the trail.