I was sitting in a room on the third floor of an old house in Paris. Outside the heavy curtains, the boulevard murmured with life — bells ringing in the distance, newsboys shouting headlines, footsteps rushing past. But here, behind the drapes, the world had quieted. As if it had decided, just for a while, to forget I existed.

  The room felt like the cabin of a forgotten ship: dark wooden panels, a dim lamp overhead, and a faded, frayed map pinned to the wall. Everything about it spoke of a man long accustomed to living out of a suitcase — ready to leave at a moment’s notice. And it seemed that moment had come.

  On the desk before me lay a letter. The envelope was sealed with red wax. I stared at it for a long time, hesitant to break it open, as though it might contain something far heavier than mere words. The name on the front read: étienne Duroc.

  I hadn’t heard that name in years. I hadn’t used it even longer. So long, in fact, that I’d nearly forgotten it was ever mine.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  At last, I broke the seal and unfolded the letter. The paper was thin, the handwriting unmistakably my own.

  It read:

  “If you’re reading this, then everything is going according to plan. You have a journey ahead of you. You won’t remember everything at once, but you must go back. East. To the sands. Find what you once discovered. And destroy it. Before it’s too late.”

  I sat still for a few minutes, as if negotiating something with myself. Then I rose slowly, crossed the room, and opened the old wardrobe. My suitcase was already packed. It had been, for some time.

  I shifted the contents into a rucksack, checked my tools, and buckled the straps. I didn’t know who had sent the letter — not really. But if it had come from me, then the reasons must have been good. Irrefutable. Especially now, as memory began to return, like a tide rising after a long drought.

  I looked at the letter one last time, then folded it neatly and slipped it into my pocket.

  Ahead of me lay the road — eastward, into the desert, back toward a secret I had once left behind. And I knew, deep down, that this time… there would be no turning back.