As If We'd Never Existed

"The storm left us a parting gift—a landscape so thoroughly wiped clean of our presence that I half-wondered if we'd dreamed the whole bloody day before."

The first light of morning crept into the tent like an uninvited guest, its soft glow illuminating the wreckage of our night.

My head rolled to the side, movement born of instinct rather than choice, and I found myself staring at Paul. He lay in the middle of our collapsed shelter, still lost in whatever sleep had finally claimed him after the chaos subsided. The blanket I'd draped over his exposed form hours ago remained in place, protecting his bare skin from the chill that had settled once the storm's fury passed.

I watched him breathe—slow, steady rhythms that spoke of genuine rest rather than the tormented thrashing that had defined the night's worst hours. Something in me loosened at the sight, though I couldn't have explained why.

Peculiar bastard, I thought, without heat. Who sleeps naked in a place like this?

But even as the observation formed, I recognised its unfairness. My acquaintance with Paul remained limited—barely two days of forced proximity that had taught me survival logistics and nothing of the man himself. Perhaps the brothers were more alike than I'd initially perceived, both carrying depths I hadn't bothered to plumb.

Perhaps I already know him better than I think.

The thought arrived unexpectedly, a silent acknowledgment of something forming between us despite our circumstances. We'd held each other through terror. We'd shared a night that had stripped away pretence and left only raw need for human connection. That counted for something, even if I wasn't ready to examine what.

I rubbed at my eyes, the remnants of fatigue clinging stubbornly to my consciousness. Sleep had claimed me faster than I would have imagined possible—testimony to the sheer exhaustion that had accumulated through yesterday's catalogue of disasters. How long I'd actually slept remained unclear, the absence of clocks reducing time to guesswork and daylight assessment.

What I knew with certainty was that the world had transformed.

The dust storm had retreated, leaving behind a silence so complete it pressed against my eardrums like physical presence. No wind. No rustling canvas. No distant sounds of any kind. Just stillness, vast and unbroken, that seemed almost aggressive in its totality.

After stirring from the collapsed tent, my first act had been to ensure Paul's comfort—locating our solitary blanket in the chaos and arranging it over his naked form with a gentleness I wouldn't have admitted aloud. Then I'd found my way to the mattress and lain there in residual darkness, staring at the void above me while my thoughts churned through everything the night had delivered.

The blackness had felt almost mocking in its depth. A canvas for fears and regrets that danced freely, unconstrained by the visual distractions that daylight provides.

Now, navigating through the disarray, I reached for my suitcase where it lay buried beneath what had once been the right wing of our shelter. Fresh clothes—a clean t-shirt and shorts—offered something approaching normalcy as I dressed quickly, the fabric oddly comforting against skin that still remembered last night's assault.

I crawled from beneath the collapsed canopy, emerging into morning sun that greeted me with harsh brilliance.

The landscape that unfolded before me was familiar in its desolation, yet transformed beyond recognition by the night's violence.

Sunlight traced a path across my face and down my body, illuminating the dust and debris that now defined our surroundings. The same barren, ochre expanse stretched toward distant mountains, its monotony unchanged in broad strokes. But the details had shifted so dramatically that I found myself questioning whether I stood in the same place I'd fallen asleep.

But it's not really the same at all.

The thought echoed with the weight of truth. A hollow feeling began settling within me—a sense of abandonment that had nothing to do with Luke's absence and everything to do with the landscape's indifference to our existence.

I glanced at the ground, and my fears confirmed themselves: no footprints disturbed the thick layer of dust that carpeted the earth. Our walking paths from yesterday, the trails we'd worn between tent and river and campfire—all of it had been smoothed away as if we'd never existed. The storm had delivered a fresh coat of silence across every surface, burying the evidence of our brief presence beneath inches of gold and brown particulate.

The campfire—once our focal point, our small victory against the hostile environment—had disappeared entirely. A gentle mound marked its approximate location, but the embers that had glowed with warmth and promise now lay hidden beneath their dusty grave. Even the warmth would have been smothered, I realised. Nothing remained to suggest fire had ever burned here.

Apart from the tattered remains of our tent, every trace of our time in this forsaken place had been obliterated.

The realisation landed with uncomfortable weight. We were but fleeting visitors in a vast, indifferent landscape. The storm had challenged our physical resilience whilst simultaneously stripping away the fragile markers of our existence. Here we stood, even more isolated in its aftermath, our presence acknowledged by nothing and no one.

Despite the sun's growing warmth, a chill settled over me. The relentless passage of time in a land that seemed intent on reclaiming every trace of our passage—it was a poignant reminder of vulnerability I hadn't needed but couldn't ignore.

Turning my gaze back to what remained of our tent, I couldn't help but let out a scoff. The sight was pitiful—canvas listing at absurd angles, poles half-buried, the structure we'd worked to erect now reduced to something that looked more like debris than shelter.

Yet there was relief in noting that most of the damage seemed to be our own doing. Or more specifically—

The chaos that Paul had unwittingly unleashed in his panic.

The thought carried less judgment than it might have. His terror had been genuine, his nightmare indistinguishable from reality in that moment. I couldn't blame him for responding to what his mind insisted was real, even as his actions had contributed to our shelter's collapse.

A small corner of blue material caught my attention, peeking out from beneath the dust like an accusation.

I crouched down, curiosity piqued despite my exhaustion. The fabric was unfamiliar—not immediately recognisable as anything we'd brought with us. For a wild moment, possibility sparked through my thoughts.

Could there really be other people out here? And if so, what would that mean for us? Were they friendly, civilised, or perhaps struggling to survive just as we were?

The speculation raced before I could contain it, building scenarios and implications from a scrap of blue cloth that might have meant nothing at all.

Calm the fuck down, I told myself, grasping the corner of the fabric. Find out what it is before you start planning first contact.

I pulled the material from the thick dust and gave it several vigorous shakes. Particles cascaded away, revealing the mystery object in all its mundane glory.

A chuckle escaped me, the sound strange in the morning silence. Dirty underwear. Paul's underwear, to be specific—the pair he'd apparently been wearing before the night's chaos had stripped him of everything including, apparently, his underpants.

So he hadn't been completely naked after all. At least initially.

The realisation brought a momentary lightness to the heavy atmosphere that had settled around me since emerging from the tent. A small, absurd detail in the midst of our desperate situation. Something almost approaching humour.

Without further consideration, I tossed the soiled underwear onto what was once our campfire—now just a small mound of dust indistinguishable from the surrounding landscape.

It really was a rough night.

A night that neither of us needed to be reminded of in such a tangible way. The underwear would be the first thing burned once we managed to get a fire going again. It was a small decision, but it felt like a step toward reclaiming some semblance of control. A way to start anew after everything that had happened.

Some things didn't need to be preserved.

The moment my hands wrapped around the first tent pole, pain announced itself with vicious clarity.

A sharp pang shot through my chest, the weight of the collapsed canopy adding physical strain to the injury that had been waiting all morning for acknowledgment. My brow creased, teeth finding my lower lip and biting down hard to suppress the groan that wanted to escape.

The burn. The coal that had struck me in the darkness as I'd chased Paul through the storm.

I could feel it now—a small, darkened lump nestled uncomfortably between my pectoral muscles, throbbing with persistent, nagging insistence. The skin around it felt tight and angry, radiating heat that had nothing to do with the morning sun.

But now is not the time for pain.

The stern reminder was directed at my own body, an attempt to push past discomfort through sheer willpower. The dawn of a new day, despite its promise of fresh starts, held no magic cure for the aftermath of our ordeal. It wouldn't erase the events that had unfolded, nor would it soothe the injuries sustained.

And yet, as I stood there grappling with the physical reminder of our vulnerability, I knew I couldn't afford to dwell on my own discomfort. Paul would be waking soon. The state of our shelter demanded immediate attention. Someone had to be functional, and apparently that someone was going to be me.

I worked through the pain, focusing on practical tasks that kept my hands busy and my mind occupied. The canopy required repositioning, the poles needed resetting, the whole structure demanded attention I wasn't certain I had the energy to provide.

But I provided it anyway.

The tear escaped before I could prevent it—a small betrayal of the composure I'd been maintaining. I dabbed at it quickly, irritated by the weakness even as I recognised its source. The physical pain had accumulated to a point where my body was responding despite my mental resistance.

The canopy was sorted now. The wing, though partially corrected, still hung awkwardly—a problem for later, when my chest wasn't screaming and my patience wasn't threadbare. My efforts had stabilised the structure for the moment, a small victory overshadowed by the increasing demands my injury was making.

Enough. You've done enough for now.

With resigned acceptance, I made my way through the thick blanket of dust that covered the ground. My bare feet left shallow impressions with every step, the only footprints in a landscape that had been wiped clean of all evidence of passage. The destination was the river behind our tent—a ribbon of coolness that promised relief from both physical pain and the accumulated tension of the morning.

The water, in its quiet flow, seemed oblivious to last night's events. It continued its ancient course as if nothing had changed, as if the world hadn't tried to tear itself apart mere hours ago.

I sat down at the water's edge, and the initial touch of cool river against my skin sent a shiver of relief cascading through my legs. The sensation was almost immediate—a balm to the physical and emotional exhaustion that clung to every part of me. My toes explored the refreshing flow tentatively, each ripple a whisper of calm that gradually eased the tension from muscles I hadn't realised I'd been clenching.

With my eyes closed, I allowed myself a moment of respite. My head tilted back, surrendering to the serene sounds of water in motion. The vacant contemplation was a welcome reprieve from the constant vigilance and problem-solving that had defined our time here.

For a few precious seconds, I was simply a man sitting beside a river, letting the world continue without his participation.

"Rose!"

Paul's voice shattered everything.

The sound was laced with panic—that same desperate quality that had defined the worst moments of last night—and my eyes flew open with adrenaline surging through my system. The echoes of trauma threatened to resurface, dragging me back into the chaos I'd only just begun to escape.

What the fuck!

The internal exclamation was reflex, a response to the sudden shift from peace to potential crisis.

"Where are you?"

Paul's voice carried a mixture of fear and confusion that pulled me further from the calm I'd found by the water. He was awake, clearly, and just as clearly still trapped in whatever nightmare had pursued him through the night.

Daylight, I reminded myself, forcing my racing heart to acknowledge reality. It's daylight. He's awake, not dreaming. This is confusion, not crisis.

I turned my gaze back toward the camp, seeking Paul's location. "You had a nightmare, Paul," I called out, aiming for steadiness despite the adrenaline still coursing through my veins. "Rose isn't here."

The words felt cruel even as I spoke them—a blunt instrument applied to whatever tender wound his daughter's absence had opened. But grounding him in reality seemed more important than sparing his feelings. Rose wasn't here. Rose couldn't be here. Whatever voice he'd heard in the darkness had been manufactured by his own desperate longing.

Paul appeared at the side of the tent, clutching the blanket around his waist with white-knuckled hands. A visible shiver ran through him despite the morning's growing warmth, his body responding to emotional chill rather than physical cold.

"I don't understand," he admitted, bewilderment clear in every aspect of his presentation—his voice, his face, the way he stood like someone who'd woken in an unfamiliar room and couldn't remember how he'd arrived.

"Come sit," I suggested, gesturing to the space beside me. The words emerged gentler than I'd expected, an attempt to offer comfort and normalcy amidst his confusion.

He hesitated, his gaze darting around the transformed landscape as if answers might materialise from the dust that had claimed everything. His search was futile, and I felt my patience fraying slightly at the edges despite my best intentions.

Paul's going to have to figure it out for himself.

The resignation settled over me as I turned my attention back to the river. I'd offered what I could. The rest was his to navigate.

The water reclaimed my focus—its gentle ebb and flow around my feet, the coolness providing sharp contrast to the sun's growing heat. Absorbed in the simple pleasure of watching ripples form and dissolve, I acknowledged the day's inevitable challenges. The temperature would climb. The dust would bake. The tent would offer marginal shelter at best.

But for this moment, the river's embrace was a balm to both body and spirit.

"The water will help soothe your foot," I offered as Paul finally approached, his hesitation giving way to the promise of relief.

He lowered himself to the bank with careful movements, then lifted the blanket to expose feet that made me wince in sympathy despite myself. They mirrored the distress of my own—reddened and battered, raw from yesterday's accumulated abuse. But Paul's showed something worse: the unmistakable marks of burns, the soles damaged by his inadvertent walk through the remnants of our campfire in the pitch blackness of the storm.

"Ooh." Paul's voice broke through my thoughts as he dipped his damaged feet into the cool embrace of the river. "That feels good."

A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, unseen by Paul. The expression surprised me—evidence that some capacity for lighter feeling hadn't been entirely extinguished by the night's horrors.

If only we could stay in the river all day.

The thought was wistful and laden with heavy truth. In this harsh, unforgiving environment, the water offered rare respite—a momentary escape from relentless heat and omnipresent dust. It seemed, in that moment, to be the sole benevolent feature in a landscape that otherwise tested us at every turn.

The idea of remaining in this tranquil spot, away from the threats and uncertainties that awaited us beyond its banks, was tempting. Yet reality allowed for no such indulgence. The river, for all its soothing properties, was temporary sanctuary at best.

"Last night was a fucking disaster." The words tumbled out of me, shattering the silence that had settled between us.

"I guess." Paul's response was terse, almost distant. The events of the night had clearly left impressions deeper than I'd initially realised. As I watched him gazing blankly across the river, the weight of his unspoken thoughts seemed almost visible.

"What happened to my foot?" His question broke through his reverie, his voice carrying genuine confusion.

My eyebrow arched in surprise. "You don't remember?"

It seemed impossible that he could forget such a harrowing experience—the screaming, the chase, the collision with the fire's remnants. But his face contorted with concentration, searching for memories that apparently remained just out of reach.

Ultimately, he could only offer a shrug.

"You went running out of the tent in pitch blackness in the middle of a fucking dust storm and trod on hot coals from last night's campfire." I stated the facts plainly, not mincing words. "And all for a voice that wasn't real."

The harshness of the truth felt necessary—a grounding force in the face of his confusion. He needed to understand what had happened, even if understanding brought pain.

"How do you know it wasn't real?" Paul's demand was sharp, his belief in what he'd heard unwavering despite all evidence to the contrary. "I heard Rose as clear as water."

I sighed heavily, the sound carrying more weariness than irritation. Part of me wished for Paul's sake that his experience had been real, that his daughter's voice had somehow carried across dimensional barriers to reach him. Yet I knew with certainty that we had been alone in our struggle—two men battling a storm, with no voices except our own echoing through the chaos.

"Pure blackness can make the mind go crazy," I offered gently, trying to bridge the gap between his perception and the reality of what we'd shared.

I noticed Paul's lips relax slightly—a subtle shift that spoke volumes about internal processes I couldn't fully track. Yet even as concern for his wellbeing surged within me, I found myself turning away, unwilling to let him see the worry creasing my brow.

The thought that Paul, the optimist among us, might lose his grip on that optimism was difficult to contemplate. Worse still was the possibility that this place might drive him toward madness—or that it might do the same to me. In this godforsaken expanse, Paul's fundamental hopefulness wasn't just a personality trait. It was a beacon. The idea of that light dimming, of both of us losing our way in the darkness, was a fate too daunting to face directly.

Someone has to hold it together. And right now, that someone is me.

"I'm going to fix the tent," I declared, pushing aside the persistent ache that continued its campaign across my chest. The morning sun was already asserting its presence with uncomfortable intensity, promising a day that would test our endurance in entirely different ways than the night had. "And this sun is feeling very warm already. You'd better get some clothes on. I hate to say it, but we may be spending a lot of time in the tent until we can get more shelter."

Without lingering on the conversation, I turned and walked away. Each step kicked up fine particles of Clivilius's omnipresent dust, the substance clinging to my damp feet with frustrating persistence. The sensation was maddening—grit worming between my toes, coating my skin with a layer that felt like it would never come clean.

"Fuck off!"

My irritation with the dust burst forth, a harsh snap directed at the inanimate yet ever-present annoyance. As I attempted to brush it away, the action felt symbolic—as if I were trying to rid myself of the broader hardships we faced, not just the grit between my toes.

The dust, of course, paid no attention to my demands.

Approaching the tent, I bent to tackle the task of reassembling our shelter. The corner tent pole seemed the logical starting point—secure this one, and the rest should follow more smoothly. My hands found the metal, and fresh pain radiated from my chest at the movement, but I pushed through it with the grim determination that had carried me this far.

Paul's slow approach broke my concentration. "Have you seen Luke yet this morning?"

The question ignited something volcanic within me.

"Nope." The word emerged with more venom than I'd intended, though I made no effort to soften it. "Luke seems to be working to his own fucking agenda."

The statement was a vent for frustration that had been building since we'd first learned the Portal would reject us. Luke came and went as he pleased, returning to Earth each night while Paul and I remained stranded in this dust-choked wasteland. He'd promised to return first thing in the morning, and yet here we stood, alone, with no sign of him.

Paul's reaction was immediate, his frown deepening with something that looked like disapproval. "Do you really have to be so negative? And do you have to swear every second sentence?"

His questions were meant to check my attitude, to remind me that my constant profanity and pessimism weren't helping our situation. And perhaps he had a point. Perhaps I was adding to the misery rather than alleviating it.

But in that moment, I couldn't bring myself to care.

"Yes," I retorted, my defiance unyielding. "Yes, I fucking do."

I waited for Paul to move away, letting the pent-up sigh of frustration escape only when I no longer had an audience. Then, with a mixture of determination and resignation, I drove the tent pole into the ground.

The Clivilius dust swallowed it up, accepting the intrusion without comment.