The Formidable Desert
The sun bore down on him like a thousand needles, rousing him from a cold, restless sleep into a nightmare of heat. All around him the desert stretched out in every direction. Raw. Empty. Silent.
He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the light, skin already burning.
Summoning the meagre strength he had left, he forced his body upright and began to stagger forward, parched and starving.
Minutes became hours and hours became days. His legs grew heavier with each step; desperation mounting.
Then one morning he noticed on the ground, half-buried beneath the shifting sands, a large piece of paper gently fluttering in the feeble breeze. Upon inspection, he saw the title Instruction Manual engraved in bold letters on one side. He flipped it over to find densely packed words, small and obscure, demanding effort and patience to read.
But hunger clawed away at his insides with savage persistence. The will to decipher the paper's message quickly vanished. His trembling hands tore the paper into small pieces, and he consumed them in desperate bites.
It sustained him—barely.
Like a Mirage
One day, as his aching eyes scanned the shimmering horizon ahead, a structure began to emerge into view—a vision that glinted against the background of the barren desert.
A mirage? Or something tangible?
He stumbled toward it.
A large building resembling an elegant home stood alone, defying its surroundings.
It appeared to be unoccupied, as if abandoned. Curiosity impelled an inspection.
Inside, it was paradise: the home contained an endless supply of food and water, limitless power, and multiple floors brimming with luxuries—entertainment rooms, exercise equipment, an advanced computer system with access to unlimited knowledge.
Everything was exquisite.
The man set about indulging wildly, each day a feast, every room a revelation of pleasure and abundance.
It seemed the fun would never end.
He Began to Weaken
Then one day, abruptly, he fell sick. A mysterious illness crept in like the tendrils of an unseen shadow. His body faltered—his strength drained. Panic overtook him.
Frantic, he scoured the building's archives for a cure, searching through countless resources. Yet he found none—no explanation, no clues, no escape from his decline.
He lingered for many days. As his body withered, his breath grew shallow, his mind dulled with pain. He sensed that he was dying.
And yet, despite his final hours approaching, he never pondered the most crucial questions:
Who had built this home? Why was it here? What was its purpose?
Was I here as a guest—or a tenant?
The Basement
His desperate condition compelled an extensive search through the dim confines of the building's lower floors, which he had rarely explored. His eyes surveyed the cold stone floor until he observed the faintest irregularity—a seam barely visible at the lowest point. His fingers traced its outline, rough and splintered, confirming what he already suspected: a hidden trapdoor.
His pulse pounded in his ears as he wedged a metal bar beneath the heavy wooden slab, forcing it open with a protesting creak. A breath of stagnant air curled upward, thick with earthen secrets. Below, the chamber yawned, vast and empty, its depths swallowed in ink-black shadow. A spiral staircase twisted downwards to the depths of ever-increasing darkness.
Steadying his breath, he stepped forward and began to descend.
The steps emerged into a room, darkly lit, to which his eyes were compelled to adjust. His vision wavered, adapting to the subdued glow that barely held back the darkness.
As his awareness sharpened, he noticed the room was empty, except for an old oak table in the centre, withered by time. Its surface was engraved with indelible words, profound and unsettling:
Alone in a hot, dry, formidable desert
An exquisite home
An endless supply of food and water, limitless power
The room was empty, except for an old oak table in the centre