A skeleton's trek

§ 1.

A peculiar sight appeared in New Mexico's Jornada del Muerto desert: there walked a skeleton, in a suit.

A distant observer would have guessed it was a mere mirage. In reality, however, it was a much more serious kind of illusion. Because the walker also perceived himself as a self-moving pile of bones.

Psychosis? Perhaps.

It occurred to him too that he might've lost his mind. The assessment of this possibility was part of the reason he was hurrying, with such determined steps, ever farther from his place of origin, and ever closer to potential help. But mostly just to find out how he died.

He didn't remember. Neither his death, nor his identity. But, through the inspiration of some divine whisper, he knew about the single person who could discover who he once was, and what ended him.

The thirst for knowledge of his own nature made him indefatigable. No matter how much direct sunlight blazed that, which to him appeared as a bare skull; no matter how scorching was the sand, baking that, which to him seemed to be uncovered foot bones... He just kept on roaming, sensing his target's aura more strongly with every mile.

At no point did the length of the path before him demotivate him. Albeit, he still had months to go. He focused on the goal, not caring much about the fact that he's been struggling for years already, all along alone.

He knew well even before hitting the road, that the necessity to lie low will make a true odyssey out of his journey. But it's not like a walk from El Salvador to New York City can go swiftly, anyway.