I don’t know how long I have been walking. Perhaps, I’ve been walking for centuries, or perhaps I will continue walking for centuries still. I place my feet upon the sand, and the marks stay there for barely a moment before a gust of wind sweeps them away, as if they were never there at all. Yet I keep moving forward. It takes great effort to move ahead. My steps rise with difficulty, as though my feet are utterly worn out — indeed, as though my entire being is exhausted. Still, I go on, walking toward a village.

As the sunlight is fierce, its rays penetrating into my skin. Sweat begins to dry even before it escapes my pores, yet I let it form. I do not know this path. I know nothing about the place ahead. And yet the streets of that village, its walls and doors, its houses, their worn-out windows, and ‘she’ — all of them know me. They recognise me well.

I have reached the outskirts of the village. I am about to enter it. I step into the outer edge of a lane and see that the shadows of the walls cast the whole street dim. In that darkness, I begin searching for my own presence.

Suddenly, from the inner end of the lane, a very faint voice raises:

“He has come.”

I turn quickly, but I see no one. Only an old tree stands there, and carved into its bark is my name — clearly visible in the soft light though. I did not do this. I h’ve never carved anything anywhere. I have never sculpted anything; never made anything. Then how did my name ends up here? I begin to wonder.

“This was your name, wasn’t it?”

I hear her voice. It is the same ‘she’ who recognises me. Her eyes are always half-open, as though she dwells inside an endless dream. I had known she would be here, just as she had always been here. There is a lamp in her hands, but its flame is still — untouched by wind, as though time itself has halted.

“You were buried, yet you’ve returned?”

Her voice echoes again.

I want to answer her questions, but no words come out of my mouth, as though my tongue has been sewn shut. She looks at me as if searching for some secret within me. Then she gestures to one side.

I enter the village. The same old streets, the same faded walls. I notice the sunlight weakening. Thin, dim, as though its brilliance has drained away. I move on and see an old woman sitting behind the door of a corner house. She is dying. The wrinkles on her hands seem centuries old. She is saying something to me, but I cannot hear her. I only see the movement of her lips — is she calling me?

Seeing her in that condition suddenly reminds me: I am dead. I was buried last night, yet my feet still touch the earth. My hands still move through the air. And, I can still see ‘her’, who remains right where she was.

On the other side of the lane is a long procession. People dressed in white — some holding lit lamps; some wailing; some with tears rolling down their cheeks. Yet all of their faces are blurred, as if they are not really here. I move closer. I place my hand on someone’s shoulder, but my hand passes right through his body — moving forward into nothingness. My hand hangs in the air, then falls limply.

And there I see my own corpse. My funeral is still underway. My body, wrapped in a white shroud, is slowly becoming wet, as though someone dipped it in water. But I know it isn’t water — it is the dreams I once dreamt; now seeping out of my body.

Then suddenly she, whose eyes were always drowned in dreams, steps out of the crowd and walks toward my dead body. She fixes my shroud with her hands; looks at my face — and smiles.

“What’s all this?”

I want to scream that I am here, but my voice fades like a footprint in sand, as if it never existed. I want to say something, but no words come out.

The people in the crowd look at me. Some with fear in their eyes, some with faint smiles, as though they are part of a game whose ending they already know. They call me. They gather around me. At that moment, something strange begins to happen in the village.

The centuries-old, decaying walls begin to regrow.

The dry leaves on the trees turn green.

The air fills with a fragrance I had sensed long ago in my childhood.

And suddenly time begins to run backwards.

The crowd stops me and places their hands on my shoulders. The moment their fingers touch my skin, I am hurled back into my childhood.

Now I am a child playing with soil. My mother calls me, but I don’t listen. I don’t go to her. Instead, I sit beneath the same tree whose bark carries my carved name. A small knife is in my hand; my fingers are already bleeding, but I keep carving into the bark.

“Did I do this?”

“Yes — you did.”