In the quiet desert village of Dey, living among the sand dunes and mirages, existed an anomaly - me. I was different, born without the ability to read, write or keep long memories. My scientist father hailed my uniqueness as a miracle, but my life...
Tonight is another one of those sleepless nights where the veil of rest eludes me. In this solitude of wakefulness where slumber seems a distant reality, I take solace by gazing through the glass of my window which offers a canvas painted by the universe itself. Three moons, Tara, Lelya, and Deevia, dance their spectral waltz across an ink-black sky, their radiance casting shimmering hues of indigo, emerald, violet, silver and gold onto the vast canvas of the heavens. Tonight, the celestial bodies are particularly resplendent — each of them bathed in the ethereal glow of the galaxy, their ephemeral beauty held for this moment in time. Like a mother's unceasing love, their warm, caring Light engulfs all beneath them. The serene night could not get any better; the air is so fresh that it becomes a gift.
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The routine of the next day was supposed to unfold as usually as the night did.
Under the gaze of the dawning sun, I embark on desert hunting; the thrill of the chase serving as a remedy to my insomnia. Countless times, I've caught my prey, my hands trembling with the primal thrill of survival. By the time noon arrives, I would ordinarily share lunch with my parents at the village canteen where community bonds are grown. As the day draws to a close, I trot off to evening classes, the longschool hours serving as a demanding yet rewarding challenge.
However, on this particular day, something was amiss. The rhythm of life in our small village had been disrupted from its steady cadence. Our teacher, a stern, weather-beaten man of immense knowledge, had unexpectedly dismissed us hours earlier than usual. The classroom, usually an arena of passionate discourse and furious scribbling, echoed with the hum of stunned silence as we contemplated our newfound freedom.
Swiftly, the whispers began to ripple through the classroom: was it a gift, or sign of impending doom? Was the universe about to crumble beneath us? Was the world coming to an end? But amid the cacophony of speculative whispers, it was not too difficult to distinguish the underlying cause of this sudden alteration in our schedule — the likeliest reason of all: Histor.
Histor, the village's golden boy, had been the talk of the teens since dawn. The rumor mill had been churning about a grand party he was set to host, creating an excitable buzz among the villagers.
...
Tickling a memory cocooned in my mind, I found myself smiling at the sight of the hay bed. This makeshift sleeping space, crafted gently by myself and Wesa in the attic of his farm house, was our haven. Its unsophisticated simplicity couldn't disguise the warmth of friendship that it had witnessed over the days we had spent under its forgiving shelter.
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