Carlos sat on the edge of the gravel road, knees drawn to his chest. His throat ached with dryness. The wind, soft and warm, brushed over his bare arms like a whisper he couldn't understand.
The sky had settled into a sleepy blue haze. Dust hovered lazily in the sunlight, and somewhere in the distance, a crow called once, then went silent.
He heard her before he saw her—boots on loose stones, the swish of fabric, the soft clang of something metallic against something hard. Then, she turned the corner.
She was alone. A canvas bag bounced gently against her back. Her hair was tied in a loose, careless braid, strands of chestnut slipping free and catching the light like silk threads. Her skin was a quiet kind of pale, not cold but sun-kissed, like porcelain that had been left in the sun. There was no fear in her eyes. Just... presence. A calm, unspoken rhythm in her steps, like she belonged to this silence and it belonged to her.
Carlos didn't move.
She stopped a few steps away from him, tilted her head, and studied him. Her expression was hard to read—part curiosity, part concern. She knelt without a word, letting her bag slide to the ground.
He didn't understand her words, not truly. They were noise, soft and flowing. But her tone was clear: gentle, unthreatening. Her hand reached for the zipper of her bag. Carlos's eyes tracked one thing—the clear plastic bottle inside.
Water.
His mouth twitched. His body remembered thirst with a sharp pang.
She noticed.
With quiet understanding, she unscrewed the cap and held the bottle out to him, both hands open, like an offering. He took it slowly, almost afraid it would vanish. The plastic was cool against his fingers. He drank in heavy gulps, spilling half of it down his chin. The girl didn't laugh. She just watched with soft eyes.
Then, she reached for his hand.
Carlos pulled back slightly, but she didn't hesitate. She took it gently, like she was picking up something fragile. Her touch was warm. Human. He should've pulled away again. He didn't.
"Come with me," she said. Or something like that. But all he could understand was that she wanted him to go with her.
She stood and tugged his hand. He stumbled after her, barefoot, unsteady on legs that felt like borrowed stilts. The town shimmered ahead, distant and strange. He didn't want to go.
Humans had always driven him away.
Had thrown stones, called him names, chased him into the shadows. That memory lived in the meat of his bones. But this girl—this stranger with sky-colored eyes and dust on her shoes—had looked at him like he wasn't a mistake.
Why did he follow?
Was it because she gave him water? Because she was the only living thing left in a world that had forgotten how to be alive? Or was it because she looked like something out of the stories that dogs don't get to dream?
Maybe all of it.
He followed.
The road curved, and the landscape shifted subtly. The shadows deepened too fast for the time of day. The wind lost its warmth. They crossed the village limits, but Carlos felt something else—something beneath the air itself—change.
He looked ahead.
As they ambled towards the market, the town didn't look the same.
It was still a town, but the lines were too sharp. The colors too bright. The buildings had doors that shimmered like screens. Some floated just above the ground. Sounds didn't echo—they pinged. A massive billboard flickered to life above the street with pixelated letters: Welcome, Player One.
Carlos blinked.
His heart thumped. This was not the world he knew.
The girl glanced back at him, smiling faintly. "You'll need to trust me," she said. Again, the words meant nothing—but her voice meant everything.
Carlos looked at her, then at the digital sky bending in unnatural arcs above them. His fingers tightened around hers.
He didn't know what this place was.
But she hadn't let go.
And for the first time in a long time, neither did he.