At that moment, the world before him was nothing but an endless expanse of blue. An ocean with no visible end, cradling his fragile wooden raft as if the vast void were embracing a tiny speck in the infinite space. There was no distinction between the sky and the sea; they melted into each other, enveloping him in a deep stillness, as though time itself had ceased to move. Only the sun, a distant glowing orb, watched over him from above, a silent witness to his isolation, and his sole companion in that boundless horizon.
The boy lay on his back, his exhausted body succumbing to the overpowering grip of hunger and fatigue. His eyes were closed beneath the glare of the burning sun, and his trembling right hand shielded them in a futile search for a patch of shade amidst the blue desert surrounding him. A rope, tied tightly around his waist, connected him to the mast of the raft, the only lifeline tethering him to this fragile existence teetering between survival and oblivion.
His tattered clothes barely clung to his frail frame, worn thin by the relentless assault of salt and wind. The dagger hanging at his side gleamed faintly, a silent witness to days when he was stronger and more capable. Now, the shadow it cast on his emaciated body was a testament to how hunger had consumed him. Between his weary fingers, he clutched half a stale loaf of bread, as if holding onto it with the desperation of the hopeless clinging to illusions. His thirst was becoming unbearable, and his water skin, which had been his last connection to the hope of survival, lay empty. The sun's relentless rays scorched his skin without mercy, enough to break even the strongest of men, let alone a boy of fifteen. Though these hardships had not yet claimed his life, they had left their mark on his face, etching a story of both endurance and despair.
It would be a lie to say he had never considered ending his suffering by casting himself into the sea. Yes, the thought had crossed his mind many times, but each time, he stopped himself, pulled back by something unseen. It was as if something deeper than the rope binding his waist to the mast was tethering him to life. It was that mysterious drive that had compelled him to tie the rope around himself in the first place, the same force that shimmered faintly in his dull, weary eyes—eyes heavy with exhaustion from lack of sleep, water, and food, burning from the salt of the sea with every passing wave. Yet, despite everything, there was a subtle glimmer in his gaze. A glimmer that didn't require a keen observer to recognize; it was the spark of determination, a strength unknown even to the mightiest of warriors.
But the pressing question remained: what gave this boy, barely past adolescence, such resolve? Was it love? No, that seemed unlikely. He was too young, and perhaps had not yet had the chance to experience it. Was it a dream? But what could a boy of his age dream of that would drive him to endure such agony? Did he dream of changing the world? No, that was naive. How could a boy like him bear such a burden for people he didn't know and who didn't know him? No, it had to be something more personal, something deeper—perhaps a promise he had made, or a person from his past who still held a grip on him.
But wait... what had brought him to this state? How did he end up stranded on this raft? I don't know, and I don't want to dwell on it any further. But if this boy survives, his tale will be one worth telling—a story that will come to be known as: The Tale of Zaid, the Runaway from Lisbon.
