In the year when the guns have not stopped sounding,
and the world is still learning how to bleed without chains,
no humans walked in that desert —
just spirits waiting to be named.
The desert does not breathe.
He survived.
The dust stretches endlessly,
under a sky that does not shine — but judges.
The wind brings no mercy,
but the whisper of bones buried shallow,
and stories buried even deeper.
And upon that cursed ground lay something broken :
a human.
Half of his body was buried in sand,
as if the earth itself was starting to reject him.
His coat — which once might have been brown —
torn apart like a holy book tainted by time.
The blood has dried on it,
forming maps of violence that can no longer be read.
His shoes are cracked.
His fingers were stiff.
His hands grasped emptiness.
He should have died.
According to the laws of God, nature, and man —
he should have turned to dust.
But he didn't.
A crow circled in the sky.
Very.
Twice.
Then go down.
He landed next to the body,
tilted his head, as if assessing the value of the meat.
Her beak drew closer to the man's neck —
seeking tenderness, seeking surrender.
The man didn't move.
The crow pecked.
No reaction.
He pecked again.
Still nothing.
So —
a breath.
Shallow.
Broken.
But challenging.
The crow screamed and backed away,
its wings opened like black flames.
That corpse… wasn't a corpse.
The man's eyes opened.
Not slowly.
Not soft.
But with violence —
as if something inside him rejected death itself.
His vision was confused.
Light broke.
The sky burned white.
The world shook.
And then —
pain.
Not just a taste.
But memory.
Her back is arched,
as if hit by an invisible whip.
His fingers gripped the sand,
trembling like a sinner drawn back from judgment.
Something moved under his skin.
No —
something woke up.
Behind the torn cloth on his back,
the wounds started to appear.
Not an old wound.
Not a wound that has healed.
But rather signs of life —
jagged, crooked,
like the writing of suffering carved into the flesh.
The wound burned.
No —
they remember.
Pieces of memory invaded his mind:
A door slammed.
A voice shouted.
A body was thrown.
A cracking sound —
not wood.
Bone.
" — GET UP!"
The voice echoed —
not in the desert,
but inside his head.
"YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO DIE!"
The man screamed.
Wild, raw, sound
which does not come from the throat of civilized man.
His body convulsed.
His muscles tensed.
His veins darkened under sunburned skin.
His breathing was intermittent —
every pull is a resistance to existence itself.
And then —
quiet.
The wind blew again.
Slow.
Be patient.
Supervise.
He lay still.
But now —
he breathes.
Time elapsed.
Minutes or hours — no one knows.
Finally, the man moved again.
Slowly,
like something just learning to live.
His hands pressed against the sand.
He pushed.
Fail.
Collapse.
He tried again.
And again.
Until finally —
he stood up.
He did not rise as a hero.
Not as a legend.
But as something unfinished.
His legs were shaking,
almost forgot its function.
His head bowed,
shade the eyes that have not yet chosen —
see the world, or condemn it.
Blood dripped from his fingertips.
The wound on his back throbbed slowly.
Life.
Wait.
He stepped.
One step.
Then the next step.
Every movement is a rebellion.
Every breath is a statement:
Not yet.
The desert offers no path.
Just infinity without direction.
But he kept going.
In the distance —
something shiny.
Not a mirage.
But it's also not completely real.
A building.
A city.
Or maybe it's just an illusion.
The man didn't know.
He didn't remember his name.
Doesn't remember his past.
Doesn't remember why he's still alive.
But deep inside him —
something to remember.
And he whispered.
Not with words —
but with hunger.
With anger.
With something much older than pain.
The wind howled.
The sky is burning.
And the desert watched.
So that's it,
from dust and suffering —
a human being is not born,
but returned.
Without a name.
Unforgivable.
Not finished yet.