Once upon a time, there was a man.
A hunter.
Wait, no.
That's not quite right.
A traveler?
Closer.
But no cigar.
A mystery, then.
Once upon a time, there was a mystery of a man, who walked without really moving, and left stories and questions in his wake.
Yes. That seems quite good.
And once upon a time later, he wandered into a person.
Which, by all means, is a strange thing to do.
He wandered, walked, became, a person he thought he could be, because it was so perfectly carved out for him in that strange little desert town.
He was a scientist for a while.
Scientists were needed for every town, they said.
After all, how could secrets be discovered without them?
He was good at finding secrets, and unraveling all of the mysteries that the town needed so that they could be spun into something new.
Maybe he was good because he knew how to be on that side of the questions.
Then again, maybe not.
He was growing comfortable in this place, so much that he could almost call it home.
Almost.
But traveling feet are traveling feet, no matter if they're clad in patent leather shoes or not.
Upon another time, much later from last time, and a very sizeable distance from the first, he kicked off his shoes.
He kept his labcoat.
The sand storms could be harsh.
He wandered and wandered, and after some time, wandered some more.
There's only so much wandering a person can do, before they wear something away.
Maybe it was his smile, of gravestones in a military cemetery that weren't quite so proud.
Maybe his laugh, which was no longer rich with neon sunsets and cactus juice, but dry and dull like the aunt who smells of mothballs, and always hugs you a bit too hard.
Maybe it was his eyes, that were no longer so reflective of life, nor as sharp as they were in the times he would rival the hawks with his piercing gaze, finding the field mouse just a second before them.
Maybe it was his sight failing that led to his fall.
After all, it's kind of hard to not step off a cliff when you don't know it's there.
Or particularly care.
In any case, he fell and tumbled and crashed into sea foam the same color as his grandmother's hair when she would make breakfast quesadillas in the soft amber light of the morning sun.
It hurt.
But the sea is sometimes kind to those who've waited.
And so he was carried gently through the great milky blues and midnight blacks and golden greens of the oceans seeing everything but the world on seagull wings and whale backs and in the cradles of currents and-
Hands.
Familiar hands, which had stayed soft throughout the roughness of this mortal planes.
There were also words, as soft as the hands, and maybe a bit warmer.
But you can probably guess what they were.
The next time our mystery blinked, he wasn't a quite a mystery anymore, not in the way he was.
Because he was home, in a house he knew everything about, with people he was constantly learning and loving and-
And
And the owner of those hands who had a smile made of sand and seagulls and dusty old lab coats that served as protection for more than just his skin.
That's exactly when he knew why he wasn't a mystery, because who can be that when you have a home and a family and feet that were not callused or numb or burnt from walking deserts for too long but soft, with so many miles to go?
Not a man in an almost tale.
