His mother's story was a dangerous gift. It re framed their entire journey, turning it from a desperate flight for survival into the living consequence of a single, fateful choice. Lio now looked at his father differently. He saw not just a man broken by a changing world, but the architect of their prison. Ira's fear had set them on this path, this endless, repeating pilgrimage to nowhere, and now he had abdicated, leaving the weight of his decision on the rest of them. The thought settled in Lio's mind, heavy and dark, as he drifted into an exhausted sleep.
The dream, when it came, was stark and silent.
He was standing on the bank of a river. It was wide and slow moving, its surface black and glossy like obsidian, reflecting a bruised and starless sky. The air was cold and still. At his feet lay a figure wrapped in a heavy, sodden canvas shroud. Lio did not need to see the face. He knew, with the absolute, unshakeable certainty of dreams, that it was his father.
His task was simple and immense. He had to carry the body to the other side.
He bent down, his dream muscles straining as he hefted the figure onto his shoulders. The weight was staggering, a dense, physical burden that drove the air from his lungs.
It was not just the weight of a man; it felt like the weight of a waterlogged house, of years of bad decisions, of a thousand useless maps.
Lio took a step into the river. The black water was shockingly cold, and the riverbed was a thick, greedy mud that sucked at his feet, trying to pull him down. He locked his knees and pushed forward, his entire being focused on the singular, agonizing task. The opposite bank, shrouded in a grey mist, seemed a continent away.
Each step was a separate, monumental effort. The shrouded figure on his back seemed to grow heavier, pressing him down into the frigid water. He could feel the cold seeping into his bones, a deep, wearying chill that had nothing to do with temperature. This was the cold of futility. He pushed on, his breath coming in ragged, silent gasps, his gaze fixed on the far shore.
After an eternity of struggle, his feet found purchase on solid ground. He staggered up the muddy bank and, with a final, desperate heave, let the body slide from his shoulders onto the dry land. He collapsed beside it, his body trembling with exhaustion and relief. He had done it. He had crossed the river.
He lay there for a moment, catching his breath, and then pushed himself up. He had to see where he had arrived. He turned to look at the new landscape, and the true, quiet horror of the dream revealed itself.
He was standing on the bank of the river, the same bank he had started from. The water flowed before him, black and silent. And at his feet lay a figure, wrapped in a heavy, sodden canvas shroud.
The journey had reset. He had not reached the other side. He had simply completed a lap. A profound, soul crushing despair washed over him. The body was just as heavy, the water just as cold. There was no choice. He had to do it again.
He bent down, the familiar, impossible weight settling onto his shoulders. He stepped into the water. He crossed. He arrived back where he started. Again, and again, and again.
Lio woke with a silent gasp, his body aching, the phantom sensation of the crushing weight on his shoulders and the deathly cold of the river still clinging to him. He was tangled in his thin blanket, his heart pounding. In the pre dawn gloom, he looked over at his father.
Ira was asleep, curled on his side like a child. He looked small and terribly fragile. In his arms, he clutched the cloth wrapped bundle that was the bleeding map, holding it to his chest as one might hold a teddy bear.
Lio's breath hitched. The dream was not a dream. It was the truth, distilled into a perfect, horrific metaphor. He was carrying his father. He was hauling the dead weight of his father's abdicated hope, his broken sanity, across the endless, repeating river of their journey. And every time he thought he'd reached the other side, a new horror, a new revelation, would simply put him back at the beginning.
He looked at the sleeping form of the man who was once his guide and protector. He felt a surge not of anger, but of immense, wearying pity. This was the burden. This was what he carried. The knowledge of their prison, and the body of the man who had locked the door.