A lone, aged man wanders across the wild land, searching. Always searching. Before he lost everything and after he lost everything and during losing everything - he searched. The inkling sat with him since he was a child, looking into his mother’s boudoir mirror.

Now, the sand drags against his near-numb feet, the wind whips his unkempt hair, and his tongue flicks over his dry, cracking lips. There’s no moisture there. He’s hungry, thirsty, and bone-tired. His eyes can barely see what’s in front of him.

He collapses. Nobody runs to help him; nobody nearby even screams. They see a sad, old, lonely man who maybe was something one day but definitely is nothing now. That’s how he always felt, too.

Surrendering, he finds what he had been looking for and curls into the fetal position, smiling as he dies.