The sun rose over the trees and Escanor opened his eyes, his body already awake before his mind. A full year had passed since the day he woke up on the beach. He knew it because the flowers that grew near the river had bloomed again in the same way they had when he first counted the days. He also knew it because of the long pole inside his shelter, carved with hundreds of notches, one for each sunrise. His hand had traced the cuts many times, and the long line of marks was proof that time had moved. The boy who had woken confused and weak was gone. The man who stood now was stronger, faster, harder than he had ever been. He stepped outside and breathed the cold morning air. His chest felt wide and full of fire. He walked to the fence and pushed at one of the heavy logs. It moved easily under his hand. He lifted it, turned it, and set it down. A year ago, that log had taken all his strength. Now it felt light. He smiled, not because anyone could see, but because he knew what it meant. His body was no longer normal. It was built for something greater. He ran his loop through the forest. His feet carried him fast over roots and stones. His breath stayed calm, his heart steady. He leapt across the river, landed on the far side, and kept running. When he finally stopped back at the shelter, sweat covered him but his legs did not shake. He could keep going if he wanted. He picked up the sword and trained as he always did. The blade cut the air with sharp whistles. He struck the tree again and again, each hit landing where he wanted. He moved with rhythm, step forward, strike, step back, guard. His body remembered every motion. His hands never forgot. He could see every mistake he had ever made, and he corrected them. His mind kept it all clear. He threw the spear at the circle he had drawn in the dirt. It hit the mark, deep and strong. He pulled it out and threw again. Again it struck true. He lost count of the throws because none of them missed. He laughed softly to himself. He was not the man he had been before. He was something new. At night, when the fire burned low, memories filled his head. They did not come in pieces like before. They came whole, sharp, complete. He could remember everything he had lived. He could remember the first cut he carved on the pole, the exact sound the snow made when it hit the hide curtain, the first deer he killed and the way the blood steamed in the cold air. He could remember every step of every run, every stone he lifted, every mistake he fixed. Nothing faded. His mind was like an open map that showed all roads at once. And it was not only this year he remembered. It was also the other lives. He saw flashes of 2025. The road and the lights. The horn of the truck. The last scream of metal. He saw coffee cups, screens glowing, a couch too soft. But these things came less now, as if that world was fading away. He no longer thought of it as home. He thought of it as something that happened to another man. The memories of Escanor's life in Spain were louder. He saw the training yard, the wooden swords, the captain's voice shouting at him to hold the line. He saw the docks of Cádiz, the ships waiting, ropes thick with tar. He saw the men boarding, some singing, some praying. He remembered the voyage. The first days near the coast, then the long stretch of open sea. He remembered the captain's chart, the rough line drawn west into white space. He remembered the captain's words: "We sail where no map dares. Bring back proof. Bring back glory." He remembered the wind that pushed them for days without rest. He remembered the floating weeds on the water, long and yellow. He remembered the birds that flew low, the kind that never go far from land. He remembered the men laughing and saying, "Land must be close." He remembered the clear night when the captain pointed to a star and said, "Hold her south of that and we will ride the long road." He remembered the captain whispering at dawn, not to the men but to himself, "We are not under Europe now." These words stayed in his mind, carved as deep as the notches on his pole. They told him the truth. He looked at the forest around him, the strange fruit, the unknown birds, the endless trees. This was not Spain. This was not Europe. This was not Africa. He had crossed the sea and landed in a land no one from his world had claimed yet. A land across the ocean. America. The word was not known to the men who sailed with him, but Escanor knew it now. The signs were all there, and his memory made the puzzle whole. He did not shout when he realized it. He did not fall to his knees. He only nodded once to himself. The truth did not change his work. It only gave it shape. He tested his strength again that afternoon. He pulled a small tree from the ground with his hands. The roots snapped free with little effort. He lifted heavy stones from the riverbank and stacked them higher than his head. He carried logs across the clearing and built a wall of wood just to see if he could. His body moved steady, strong, unbreakable. His scars had faded to pale lines, proof of battles survived, but his skin was whole and his muscles solid. He ate his food, simple and clean, smoked meat and dried berries, water boiled and cooled. He tied knots with vines, each one perfect, because his hands remembered every knot he had ever tied. He whispered old prayers the sailors had spoken in storms, not for faith but for the sound. He thought of the faces of the men who had sailed with him, and he could see each one clearly, their eyes, their voices, their last moments before the sea took them. None of it left him. None of it faded. At night, he lay on his bed of moss and hides and stared through the crack of the door. Stars shone above the trees. He remembered the captain's finger pointing at one star, sliding a hand's width away, saying, "This is the road." Escanor smiled in the dark. He knew now where that road had led. He whispered to himself, "I am strong. I remember. I know where I am." The words were enough. He closed his eyes and slept, ready for the next day.