The fire crackled in the absurd silence and the unreal glow that didn't match the size of the flames.
At the camp, on the ground, the old man threw down several reddened hides he had been carrying in one of four makeshift backpacks.
He began unrolling one of the nearly twelve scattered across the ground.
—Let me help you, old man —said the father, kneeling to pick up one of the hides and begin unrolling it too.
Then the young man and Thomas joined in.
—We'll help —said the young man, with Thomas at his side.
The mother, who had been sitting apart, stood up and went to sit by the fire, keeping watch over the flames beneath the improvised pot.
After a few minutes, all the hides were unrolled. They were covered in scribbles and lines that looked like a poorly drawn map by someone with no experience. Some seemed to show paths, others meaningless markings.
—Now we just have to arrange them —said the father.
—Alright. Kids, pass us the hides from the lowest to the highest number —the old man instructed, glancing at the young man and Thomas.
They began turning over the hides, searching for the burned markings shaped like numbers. When they found the next in sequence, they laid it on the ground, unrolled.
Once lined up, both the father and the old man adjusted them according to the visible numbers on the outside and inside of each hide.
It went like this: 1–2, 5–6, 10–11, 21–22, 33–34.
—This is taking longer and longer, old man. At this rate, we won't be able to carry them all. We'll have to start getting rid of the lower-numbered ones…
—Yes, but that would mean we can't go back. Hmm… No, we won't do that. We've already spent five years moving forward. Going back would mean another five years —the old man's expression turned more serious.
—And that's no longer an option. Not with that thing in the way —he added, eyes shut tight, recalling a shadow.
—Besides, old man… this is getting harder to read. Even for us, don't you think?
The map looked like a tangle of straight lines and unfinished branches. As if the paths were cut off because something forced them to stop. Something that made them turn back.
—True —replied the old man after observing the massive map for a few seconds.
—But it's impressive how large it is, don't you think? —he added with a proud smirk.
The father let out an awkward laugh, eyes closed. The map was indeed far too big.
—All that's left is what the scouting group brings back, and then we'll decide which parts to keep. Ugh… —he sighed.
They waited for the group's return to decide which portions of the map —made from absurdly large hides— to keep.
"Five years and still no sign of an exit. Just walls, mushrooms, and monsters," thought the father.
The old man noticed his distress.
—Just from what we've covered, we can say this place is bigger than the city. And that was already massive.
The father looked at him.
—How big was the city?
—What?
—I'm joking… well, almost. But thanks. A little distraction helps.
"The city, huh… five years now. It was an immense place, still under construction but thriving, far from the problems outside. In its prime," the father thought, eyes closed, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
"But maybe not so prime… If this place exists beneath it… how deep could we be?" he wondered as he let his head fall to the side.
By the firelight, they continued waiting.
---
After training, Thomas played with his mother, who manipulated nearby objects —helmets with mushrooms that no longer glowed— making them levitate and spin around him at different speeds. Thomas had to dodge or strike them, but his small body could barely handle the sacks, which were the size of soccer balls.
The young man was also training, but at a more advanced level. This time with Thomas's father. He was the one throwing punches and, occasionally, dodging. Though most of the time, he blocked them with short movements: a turn of the arm, a shoulder thrust. Each gesture seemed casual, but they all served to deflect the young man's attacks.
A right punch, blocked by a right forearm. Then he grabbed the young man's clothing, pulling, breaking his balance. The young man tried to recover. His skin bristled. The father's right fist headed straight for his stomach.
But it stopped short.
They were both out of breath.
Without opening his eyes, the old man said:
—Wrap it up. Looks like they've arrived.
He remained still by the fire.
Then, from the darkness of a hallway, a foot emerged. Then the rest of the body: the other young man from the scouting party. With a simple gesture, he signaled he was back. Behind him, the other young woman. And finally, Lisa.
The three of them approached different members of the group. They greeted each other, shook hands, hugged. Thomas, on the other hand, received head pats from all three, one by one, messing up his hair. He didn't seem too bothered, but he did pout.
—Alright, pick a rock to sit on. Time to eat what we've made —said the old man, stepping away from the rock he had been sitting on.
The young man who returned approached the makeshift pot. He placed a hand on it and muttered something. Thomas's mother lowered the flame with a finger gesture. Then, with more gestures, she made the pot float.
Meanwhile, the young woman from the scouting party handed out improvised bowls —they looked like shells from some small monster.
One by one, she gave them to each group member.
Behind her, Thomas's mother, with surprising control, tilted the pot just enough to serve the stew. Without spilling. Without wasting.
Thus, everyone was fed, as much as possible.
Once they finished serving, the mother gently lowered the pot.
They ate in silence, careful not to make noise, but still enjoying the meal.
A while later, everyone fell silent.
—Good. Let's begin. We'll start after you —said the old man, pointing at the father with an open hand.
—Eilor Harbrick —said the father.
—Thomas Harbrick —said the boy.
—Elena Harbrick —said the mother.
—Sol Vila —said the young woman.
—Norlick Sítbold —said Thomas's young teacher.
—Ban Castro —said the explorer.
—Tamara Binlock —said the other young woman.
—Vin Casting —said the old man.
—Alright, we're all here. Even though we're few, it feels good to know the ones who remain —the old man said as the roll call ended.
"This has become a habit. Hearing the names brings some relief… but also reminds us we were once more. It's cruel, in a way… but it's mutual comfort," thought Eilor.
"Tomorrow I have to go out with the scouting team. Well… Ellen will stay with Thomas, so it'll be fine. Time to sleep. At least I'm not on first watch tonight," he thought as he got up along with the rest. Only Norlick remained seated. It was his turn to stand guard. His face showed he didn't want to, but he had already resigned himself.
---
The camp's darkness settled like a blanket over their exhausted bodies.
Eilor, after making sure Thomas was asleep, closed his eyes. It was a fast descent. Almost a surrender.
A little bronze bell chimed as the door opened.
—Do you have freshly baked croissants? —asked the man as soon as he crossed the threshold, with a soft, almost childlike smile.
He wore a white suit with golden trim. The morning sun made him shine inside the small bakery. His boots echoed on the wooden floor.
—Yes, we do —replied the woman sweetly, turning to prepare a paper bag. Her smile was unavoidable.
—How many would you like today? —she asked.
—Seven —he said, without hesitation.
She nodded, placing them one by one. The bag crinkled. He paid without hurry. As he left, the bell rang again. The door closed.
…
The man walked through the golden rays of dawn. The city was still being born: cranes, scaffolding, faceless structures.
With one hand, he held the bag. With the other, he took out the first croissant. He closed his eyes as he bit into it. As if capturing a memory.
He kept walking.
He got on a bus, sat by the window. Took out another croissant. Watched the city under construction. The structures passed like unfinished scenes.
Then he saw them.
Three figures walking in the opposite direction, beside a tower. Their suits were dark, with strange ornaments —part military, part ceremonial.
One of them looked up.
And time changed.
Everything slowed down.
Eilor —or what remained of him in the dream— felt his vision drawn to one of them. To his face.
But he couldn't focus on it. The image failed. Like a corrupted transmission. His mind resisted. The dream glitched. Reality tore.
His breathing quickened.
"Who are you?" his will screamed.
His mind, however, begged not to remember.
And everything collapsed.
He woke up.
…
But not completely.
He was still lying down. Motionless. He could only move his eyes.
Then he saw it.
Norlick. Sitting nearby. In profile. Too still. His head tilted backward. As if something held it up.
Hands. Gray. With fingers like blades.
Behind him, in the fire's dim glow, stood a figure. Gray. Thin. Like a solid shadow.
It looked at him.
Unmoving.
Eilor's gaze rose, searching for its face.
But there was no face.
Just skin. Smooth. Unchanging.
He felt like he was going to scream.
But just as the creature seemed to notice him…
It vanished.
And with it, so did his vision.
His eyes shut.
…
He woke up with a start. This time, for real.
Sitting up. Soaked in sweat.
The group was packing to depart. The hides were being rolled. The bags prepared.
Thomas, eyes squinting, came closer.
—Dad… are you okay?
Eilor swallowed hard. Looked around, as if needing to confirm reality. He felt dizzy.
He searched with his eyes.
Norlick was there, crouched, rolling a hide. As usual. As if nothing had happened.
"Was it just a nightmare…?"
Recalling the image of the gray figure behind Norlick made him nauseous.
He covered his mouth with his right hand, lowering his head a little.
"Gray, faceless, fingers like blades."
"What was that thing?"
He noticed the trembling in his hands. The chill hadn't left.
—Better… —he whispered, though his hand still trembled.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
"Better" —but the hand still shook a little.
Yet something in his chest didn't feel right.
And deep within his instinct, the chill remained.