"Every man has his secret sorrows that the world knows not. And often time we call a man cold when he is only sad."
The perfect man.
Made rough through time.
He lies, yet he is the honorable one.
He kills, yet he is the most righteous.
He is gentle...
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Jun 18, 2019, France.
He lay curled in a fetal position against the jagged mountain wall, his body trembling uncontrollably despite the thin windbreaker clinging to him. The first rays of morning light began to creep over the horizon, gilding the opposite canyon with a surreal glow. It would have been beautiful, if not for the dull, incessant throb in his head, a constant reminder of last night’s ordeal. His thoughts were clearer now, but hunger, thirst, cold, and pain had nearly driven him to madness in the darkness. He had been on the verge of throwing himself into the river below just to escape the torment.
The chocolate bar he had rationed through the night was long gone, and his throat felt like sandpaper, rasping with every breath. Sunlight would warm his skin eventually, but what of the thirst gnawing at his sanity?
Forcing himself upright, he leaned against the cold, rough stone, surveying his surroundings with bleary eyes. Then, a flicker of movement caught the edge of his vision—a shadow, almost a hundred yards away, shifting. He blinked hard, convinced it was a mirage, a trick of his dehydrated mind.
But no, it wasn’t. A figure—a girl, no older than him—stood at the canyon’s edge, gazing down at him with an unreadable expression. His heart pounded erratically, a mixture of hope and desperation surging within him. He tried to call out, but the only sound that escaped was a strangled croak. Panicking, he tore off his windbreaker and waved it above his head like a flag, his good arm straining with the effort.
She stood there, unmoving, for what felt like an eternity. Then, without a word, she turned and vanished.
Despair crashed over him. She had seen him, he was certain, but she had just... disappeared. Was he imagining all of this? Had the nightmare continued in his waking hours?
It was an age—perhaps a few minutes, perhaps hours—before she returned, kneeling at the cliff edge directly above him. This time, she was closer, her eyes locking onto his.
“I’ve broken my hand,” he rasped, words barely scraping from his cracked lips. “Been stuck here since yesterday. I’m dying of thirst. Please, call for help. I... I don’t have much time.”
She gave a quick nod, her face calm. “I won’t take long. Hold on.”
With that, she disappeared again.
He slumped back against the stone, shivering uncontrollably. Odd, he thought. She was Asian, but her accent was refined, crisp, unmistakably British—Oxford, perhaps. What was a woman like her doing here, in this remote and desolate place? And how long would she take to find help?
He knew the landscape well enough. There were no villages or towns in the vicinity. The narrow road to La Milline was a grueling trek. If she returned with help within four hours, he’d consider himself fortunate. But the gnawing cold was relentless, sinking into his bones, reminding him of another night—one spent trapped in a cave called Lankester Hole. His body had barely survived that ordeal; would he survive this?
