For months, Alan had been walking eastward, guided only by a compass and the equipment that had accompanied him across Europe. Each step took him further from living memories, yet the image of Jennel remained omnipresent. A beacon in his solitude. After a month of walking, he noticed something strange: the cylinder Jennel had found seemed to vibrate slightly stronger. Was it just an impression, or reality? Then, over the weeks, he realized that the orange section was slowly thickening, as if responding to his progress.

  These subtle signs, imperceptible at first glance, became his only encouragement. Perhaps they indicated the distance he had traveled. But then, how much further did he have to go? Uncertainty accompanied him at every moment, while exhaustion and desolation weighed heavily on his shoulders.

  The Specters were not a problem. He had returned to his original strategy of avoiding them, though it sometimes extended his journey, forcing him onto uncertain paths to bypass cities.

  Finding provisions quickly became one of his main challenges. As he crossed the fertile plains, Alan searched abandoned houses, hoping to find leftover food. The cupboards were often empty, and the few intact canned goods were sometimes too expired to eat. One day, after hours of fruitless searching, he found a small stash: a jar of dried beans and a tin of sardines. It was far from a feast, but it would allow him to hold on a little longer.

  He crossed the fertile plains of northwestern Turkey, now marked by a haunting absence. The wheat fields, once golden under the sun, were overrun with weeds. The absence of animals was striking and oppressive; no birds, no rodents crossed his path, only bodies frozen in time.

  The heat was suffocating, the dusty roads seemed to lead nowhere. Alan moved forward slowly, often lost in thought. He clung to the image of Jennel, her vibrant and comforting memory giving him silent strength. As he neared the coast, the rolling hills became slightly greener, but this greenery stood in painful contrast to the void left by humanity.

  Upon reaching Samsun, the overwhelming silence gave him the impression of an open-air tomb. Abandoned markets, deserted streets, and rust-covered docks presented a scene both tragic and hypnotic. He walked along the coast, his footsteps echoing in a world where only the wind seemed alive.

  Fatigue and the fear of losing his way became constant companions along the winding roads. Alan frequently consulted the maps he had found, but faded road signs and overgrown paths made navigation difficult. One night, as he camped at the edge of a forest, he realized he had taken a wrong turn. Doubt gnawed at him. Should he retrace his steps at the risk of losing even more time? It was by closing his eyes and recalling Jennel’s face that he found the courage to continue in the direction he believed was right.

  From Samsun to Trabzon, the journey became more rugged. The roads wound through steep mountains and deep forests. Alan noticed that the largest trees seemed particularly affected by the nanite disease: their trunks cracked, their tops yellowed, their branches skeletal, and their roots half-exposed in the soil. Smaller trees also showed signs of decay, their withered leaves carpeting the ground. The near-total absence of animals made the landscape even more oppressive: birds no longer sang, and only the occasional squirrel or fox carcass littered the path.

  The waterfalls still murmured, their soft music providing brief respite. In these moments, he closed his eyes and recalled the laughter he had shared with his companion. The solitude weighed heavier on him.

  Reaching Trabzon, Alan found the buildings still standing, but imbued with an eerie aura. One of the perched monasteries caught his attention. He decided to spend the night there. Inside, it was dark and silent but untouched. Dust-covered pews, faded icons, and extinguished candles told a story frozen in time. Alan found an alcove where he settled in, wrapped in his blanket. As he listened to the wind whistling between the stones, he closed his eyes and imagined Jennel beside him, sharing this sacred silence.

  The biting cold of the Georgian and Armenian mountains made every night unbearable. Alan, ultimately ill-equipped for these regions, struggled to light fires. The damp wood of the Caucasian forests was a constant challenge. He sometimes spent hours blowing on twigs before getting a flickering flame. As he shivered under an inadequate blanket, Alan desperately searched for shelter. For hours, he scanned the forest by the light of the full moon, his feet sinking into the crusted snow. Every tree trunk or distant shadow raised false hopes. Finally, just before giving up and collapsing from exhaustion despite the nanites, he spotted a ruined cabin atop a small ridge. Inside, it was dark and freezing, but it held a rusted stove and a few dry logs. The fire, warm and luminous, reminded him of the heat of the Maribor chalet. A temporary balm to his growing isolation.

  In the Georgian mountains, the valleys were dotted with silent forests where animal life once again seemed extinguished. No sounds, no shifting shadows. Only the crunch of dead branches beneath his feet. This weighty absence deepened his sense of isolation. In Armenia, the arid plateaus offered little respite: the crystal-clear lakes stretched like motionless mirrors beneath a sky of relentless clarity. Their waters, of an icy transparency, reflected the surrounding peaks while exuding a chilling stillness. As Alan walked along their shores, he was struck by their silence; a quiet so deep it felt oppressive, as if time itself had ceased to flow. These lakes, with their vast, frozen stillness, seemed to hold secrets he could only brush against with his gaze. Silent echoes of the extinguished grandeur of a forgotten world.

  Upon entering Azerbaijan, the climate grew milder, but the feeling of solitude reached its peak. The valleys, dotted with abandoned villages, seemed trapped in a frozen moment. The intact houses offered a sinister irony. Everything was there, yet no one remained to use it.

  Baku, on the shores of the Caspian Sea, was a city where modernity and desolation coexisted in a troubling way. Only two years after humanity’s disappearance, the signs of abandonment were still subtle. The skyscrapers still gleamed faintly in the daylight, though their windows were beginning to darken under the accumulated dust. The wide, straight streets were almost untouched, except for a few scattered debris carried by the winds. Billboards remained readable, eerie remnants of a consumer world now locked in silence.

  The public squares retained a certain grandeur, but vegetation was beginning to creep into the cracks in the pavement. The parks, still recognizable, seemed frozen in an eternal autumn. The historical buildings, with their ornate facades, would stand for a long time yet, but a veil of dust and grime dulled their splendor. The city was an intact showcase, but devoid of any soul.

  Alan ventured to the beach bordering the Caspian Sea. The vast, gray sea stretched before him like a dull mirror. The water seemed heavy, almost stagnant, carrying the smell of decomposing algae. Various debris, washed up by the waves, littered the shore: pieces of wood, abandoned nets, and shards of plastic. The beach, once likely filled with laughter and the shouts of children, was silent, marked only by human footprints fossilized in the hardened sand.

  The sky was low, a uniform gray, and the wind blowing in from the sea was cold and constant. Alan stopped for a moment, gazing at the horizon. The endless sea, rather than inspiring him, felt oppressive, as if promising an even greater solitude. He knelt on the deserted beach, eyes fixed on the horizon. After all this distance traveled, the end still seemed out of reach.

  In these moments of despair, it was Jennel’s image that pulled him back up. He gripped the cylinder in his hand, feeling a stronger vibration, and forced himself to rise. Every step of this journey deepened his solitude, but Jennel remained his guide, his star in the infinite night.

  JENNEL

  I sit on a rock near the Source, facing the sea. The wind has picked up, carrying a biting cold that signals winter’s approach. The sky is low, grayish, and drops of rain splatter intermittently against the stone. Everything feels darker, heavier. Summer is far away. So is Alan.

  Six months. Six endless months without a single word. I try to convince myself that it’s normal. The journey is long, and he still has to make his way back. But these thoughts don’t bring any comfort. His absence is a void that grows a little larger every day.

  I glance at Johnny and Maria-Luisa, my two improvised bodyguards. They never leave my side. Johnny stands with his arms crossed, staring at the sea as if watching for some invisible danger. Maria-Luisa is more relaxed, but her eyes constantly shift between me and the horizon. When I suggested they relax, Johnny smirked and said, “Orders from the Chief.” They mean well, but they can be a bit much.

  That said, I’ve noticed they’re getting closer. Johnny looks at Maria-Luisa like a teenager in love. It makes me smile. Maria-Luisa doesn’t seem indifferent either, though she teases him often. Their growing connection is endearing. It’s the same with Yael and Bob. Their bond is obvious, and it’s comforting to see relationships forming in this broken world.

  Rose, on the other hand, has never recovered from Michel’s death. She avoids the subject, but it’s clear in her eyes. She’s somewhere else. It reminds me of my own behavior.

  The village is emptying. The campers were the first to leave, unable to endure the uncertainty or the lack of resources. According to Imre, only around five hundred Survivors remain. So few. The valley feels emptier than ever.

  Our original group is incredibly kind to me. They spoil me. Sometimes a little too much. It’s comforting. No one has abandoned us. Everyone seems in good spirits… in front of me. But I’m not fooled. I know doubt creeps in, lurking in their minds when I’m not around.

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  I won’t tolerate even the slightest doubt. If I must be the last one believing in his return, then I will be. And if there’s only one person left in this village, it will be me.

  As he left Baku, Alan chose to bypass the Caspian Sea to the south, crossing landscapes that alternated between lush greenery and arid expanses: an eerie reflection of his journey's strange contradictions.

  Upon entering Iranian lands, Alan was struck by the drastic shift in scenery. The verdant hills lining the Caspian Sea seemed to defy the desolation he had encountered elsewhere. The trees, though struggling against a slow decline, still bore vibrant green hues, and winding rivers carved through the valleys in serene harmony. The abandoned fields, once carefully cultivated, were now overrun with wild vegetation, yet their structure still hinted at human effort.

  The mild, humid climate contrasted sharply with the arid stretches he had left behind. Yet, this abundance of plant life failed to mask the human absence. Coastal villages, their buildings still intact, stood silent, frozen like forgotten stage sets. One night, Alan decided to sleep on the docks, now overrun with seaweed and shells. The calm, almost motionless sea reflected a sky heavy with dark clouds.

  He settled on an abandoned crate, wrapped in his blanket, under the shelter of a decaying hangar with rotting beams. The rhythmic lapping of waves against broken pillars was the only sound disturbing the oppressive silence. The fresh maritime air sent shivers through him, the humidity seeping into every fiber of his clothing.

  As he gazed at the dark horizon, a deep melancholy crept over him. Each gently crashing wave seemed to whisper lost memories: moments shared with Jennel. Alan clenched the cylinder in his hand, searching its vibrations for a faint echo of hope. The night was long and restless, plagued by dreams where his companion appeared fleetingly, always just out of reach. When he opened his eyes, the sky had taken on a dull gray hue, and the sea seemed heavier than before, laden with infinite sorrow.

  Alan continued along the coast, seeking solace in the untouched beauty of nature that still resisted death’s grasp. He drank from mountain streams and took refuge in houses that smelled of damp wood and decay. His nights were filled with the murmur of waves, but his sleep remained haunted by the same dream: Jennel, standing at the edge of a cliff, silently reaching out to him.

  The further Alan ventured inland, moving north toward Turkmenistan, the landscape transformed dramatically. The greenery gave way to semi-arid plains, where only scattered bushes and scraggly shrubs broke the monotony of the horizon. The cracked earth beneath his feet spoke of a land starved for water, and the heat returned with relentless force. Though the northern wind occasionally brought a fleeting chill.

  The roads he followed were nearly deserted, often buried under dunes sculpted by harsh winds. The sky, a suffocating blue by day, turned into a vast, star-strewn expanse at night. A sight both breathtaking and cruel in its indifference. Alan, frequently running low on water, scanned the horizon for abandoned wells or water points marked on his maps. One day, he finally reached a well, its location signposted by a rusted metal sign. With the desperate hope of a man pushed to his limits, he knelt to operate the old pump. Its metallic groan echoed across the barren land. But no water flowed, only a hot, dry breath of air that burned his face.

  Defeated, Alan peered into the depths of the well, seeing nothing but a gaping void filled with dust. This simple, cruel setback shook him. He rose slowly, his throat parched, as the sun’s relentless heat bore down on him, intensifying his exhaustion. It was yet another brutal reminder of the road’s merciless hostility.

  Entering Turkmenistan, Alan felt an even deeper isolation. The Karakum Desert stretched before him, an endless sea of sand and rock where life seemed impossible. The sparse remnants of human activity, tilted telegraph poles, faded road signs, cracked asphalt, were ghostly echoes of a lost era.

  The journey was grueling. Each step through the deep sand demanded immense effort, and the scorching sun drained his strength. The nights brought biting cold, forcing Alan to wrap himself in everything he owned just to retain a fraction of warmth. Despite the unforgiving conditions, he pressed on, guided by the persistent vibration of Jennel’s cylinder and the growing orange hue that now covered nearly its entire surface. A silent promise that his destination was near.

  One evening, he stumbled upon an abandoned roadside station. A crumbling relic in the middle of nowhere. The place was desolate, but he found shelter under the remains of a collapsed roof. The wind howled violently, stirring up swirling gusts of sand that lashed his face and seeped into every crevice of his clothing. As daylight faded, the sky grew dark, obscured by a shifting, dense cloud of dust.

  The sandstorm intensified. The deafening wind, combined with the relentless hiss of sand pelting the station’s walls, created an oppressive atmosphere. Alan huddled into himself, pulling his blanket tighter, pressing his backpack close to shield his belongings from the invading dust. Breathing became a struggle, each inhale drawing grit into his lungs.

  Despite the meager shelter, the sand slowly piled up around him, burying his boots, creeping over his gear. He stared into the moving darkness beyond the ruined station, unable to see anything through the swirling chaos. Each gust seemed to whisper secrets, as if the desert itself was trying to communicate in a language beyond his comprehension. The storm raged for hours, and Alan, curled in on himself, endured with forced patience, waiting for calm to return. When the wind finally relented, he emerged, coated in a thick layer of sand, his gaze lost in a landscape that seemed even more desolate than before.

  By midday, something unexpected happened.

  The cylinder’s vibration ceased.

  Alan, alarmed, pulled it from his pack and found that its surface was now entirely orange. A terrible anxiety gripped him. Was the cylinder malfunctioning, damaged by the heat and sand? Or had he finally arrived at his destination?

  Around him, the desert stretched endlessly, interrupted only by a straight road vanishing into the horizon. The heat was unbearable, making each breath a struggle. What now? Alan spent the rest of the day sheltering in his makeshift tent, but relief was minimal. His water supply was nearly gone, no longer enough to quench his burning throat. He spotted a rusted sign indicating a well far ahead, but at this distance, it seemed unreachable.

  As the sun dipped below the horizon, he couldn't shake thoughts of Jennel. Had he failed? Would he die here, alone, swallowed by this merciless desert? The nanites in his system could not prevent thirst from consuming him. He had promised Jennel he would return, yet now, he pictured her waiting. Hopeless.

  The thought haunted him through the night.

  The sand, still warm from the day’s heat, scorched his skin even through his blanket. His throat was so dry it ached. He began to recognize the early signs of dehydration: dizziness when he closed his eyes, a growing weakness in his limbs, sharp, pounding pain in his skull. Every hour stretched endlessly.

  When dawn finally broke, Alan was exhausted, weighed down by the brutal reality of his situation.

  JENNEL

  Today marks nine months and twelve days since Alan’s departure. I haven’t forgotten a single one. Every day without him weighs like another stone on my heart, but I cling to my hope.

  I know the situation is critical. Spring is returning to the valley, and the Survivors who endured the winter have exhausted their patience. To them, Alan is dead.

  But that’s impossible. He promised to come back.

  I refuse to believe otherwise. My hope is a fortress that I won’t let anyone shake.

  Even my closest friends try to make me waver. They say I’m deluding myself, that I should grieve, that I should think about the future. But to doubt Alan would be to betray him.

  Tonight, I will attend the General Assembly of all the Survivors in Kaynak. They want to decide on leaving the village and searching for a new refuge. An idea as illusory as it is ridiculous. I know what they’re thinking: that there’s nothing left for them here, that the Beacon is just a myth, a dead end.

  I’ll be there. I’ll tell them exactly what I think of them and their stupid idea. And I’ll remind them that Alan promised to return. And that I’m waiting for him.

  Alan was at the brink of collapse. His throat burned with unbearable pain, and every attempt to eat ended in failure. Yet, he somehow managed to crawl out of his tent. The sun was already high in the sky, its oppressive heat pressing down on him like an iron weight. He staggered, struggling to remain upright, his legs trembling under his own weight. The air was so dry it seemed to suck the life from him with every breath.

  "This isn’t fair." Jennel’s words echoed in his memory.

  "A concept unique to your kind. Necessary for function."

  Alan flinched. Had the voice come from inside his head? He turned sharply, despite his exhaustion, and his blurred vision began to focus on a silhouette seated on a nearly black rock. A small woman, draped in garments that seemed to blend seamlessly with the desert hues, was watching him intently.

  "Not much time. Difficult to keep this door open."

  Her mouth hadn’t moved. Alan rubbed his eyes, convinced he was hallucinating. But the voice remained, crisp and clear in his mind.

  Despite his struggle to concentrate, he recognized her. The woman from his dream in Italy. The one who had remained an enigma, an echo of his subconscious… or perhaps something far more profound.

  "Non-verbal exchange." she explained simply.

  A phrase surged into Alan’s mind, almost instinctively. The one that had haunted him ever since that dream: “Logic has been altered.”

  The small woman nodded slowly. "Your task."

  Summoning what little strength remained, Alan asked weakly, "Has it already been?"

  "That depends," she answered cryptically.

  "Critical information…" she began.

  A few minutes later, Alan, dazed and overwhelmed by the woman’s words, incapable of fully processing their meaning, watched as she turned away. Her final words were:

  "Last meeting."

  She raised a hand and pointed toward the horizon.

  "There."

  Then, as suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone, leaving only a crushing silence in her wake.

  Alan, drawing from his last reserves of strength, forced himself to move. Every step was agony, yet he trudged forward, slowly climbing a gentle slope of sand, his gaze fixed on the point she had indicated.

  The desert, with its blinding glare and suffocating heat, seemed determined to hold him back. But something deep inside him urged him onward.

  Something was waiting for him.

  Maybe… just there.