✨ “A warm wind blew through the corridor…”
A warm wind blew through the corridor. With a start, Paula woke up in what looked like a hospital room. But everything was yellowed, decayed, worn down by time. A strong smell of rust filled the air. The place seemed abandoned for decades. Paula wondered how long she had been lying in that bed. Why was she still alive?
When she finally managed to stand, she saw a name carved into the back of her hand, as if etched with a blade: “Danjo,” followed by a date: 04-12-88. Even with great effort, Paula couldn’t remember anything. Where had she come from? What year was it? Who was Danjo? Was it her own name? Her date of birth? Useful information—if one knew their memory would be lost forever.
As she stumbled through the hospital’s dilapidated halls, Paula realized the entire city was covered in fine sand. Buildings and monuments alike had been destroyed by time. She finally reached the hospital’s exit and called for help, hoping to find someone—or something—alive. Nothing. Only dead trees and endless sand.
She entered a house that still seemed somewhat intact. The door had already been forced open, as if someone—or something—had broken in long ago. Inside, nothing surprising: old, dusty photographs on the walls, shards of glass on the floor. The photos showed a typical modern family: a father, a mother, two children—a boy and a girl—and their beloved labrador, all smiling for the camera.
Desperately searching for water, Paula heard a noise in a narrow alley: a scratching, a growl. She grabbed the first sharp object she could find, cutting her hand in the process. She banged on the walls to scare off the creature she imagined, but a pile of bricks came loose and collapsed onto her. Thirsty, bleeding, her body covered in dust, Paula whispered with her last bit of strength: “Danjo…”
Then a dark figure rushed out. She thought it was the end. But in that shadowy form, she noticed a vest filled with pockets—supplies, water, rolled-up papers. The creature approached… and licked her bloody hand. It was a dog. On its collar, a gold tag was engraved with one name: “Danjo.” He actually seemed happy to see someone alive in this desolate world.
Later, after regaining some strength, Paula examined the maps attached to Danjo’s vest. Crosses, circles, arrows—markers. Her eyes locked on a house crudely drawn in red marker, with the word “Home” written above it. She couldn’t stop thinking about it. Accompanied by Danjo, she set off on the path.
After a long, lonely journey, they arrived at an abandoned gas station, reinforced with makeshift barricades, construction lamps, and fencing. Inside, a dog bowl read “Danjo.” Paula asked, “So this is where you live?” Exploring the shelter, she jumped when she saw herself reflected in a silver tray that served as a mirror. She looked old. Not just exhausted—old like someone who had lived through decades alone in a desert.
Near the mirror, she found a Polaroid photo: her, with the same dog. It was her, much younger. Everything became clear. Danjo was her dog. This shelter—her home.
On the table lay a notebook full of memories, with a handwritten note on top:
“If you’re reading this, then solitude must have gotten the best of me. I’ve gone to a better world, or at least I hope so. I’m old, sick, lost. Since Danjo’s death, all I’ve had left is my loneliness. He stayed by my side for fifteen long years. I have no regrets, and I leave in peace.”
Paula didn’t understand. She was reading a farewell letter written by herself… and yet she was still alive.
A loud crash shook the house. Blue and white lights flashed through the window. A deep voice asked:
– “What’s the name of the person living here?”
– “Paula,” another man replied. “Looks like a suicide, judging by the note.”
The paramedics tried to resuscitate her. But it was too late.
– “Time of death: April 12, 1988, 12:34 p.m.”
