There are few times when you can truly see a man broken, defeated, unable to rise, much less continue.

  But sometimes, after suffering a complete collapse of belief, a way of life, an absolute truth, it happens. In cases like these, a man’s mind -crumbles,- and he is lost.

  On the outskirts of a small, arid town, surrounded by plateaus and low mountains, the villagers had gathered around a frail man with sick lungs, cursing his existence through choked screams.

  -COME BACK!-Ulises Twain cried, his voice raw, his hands digging into the dry earth.

  The wind carried his echo into the empty horizon, where his double had already vanished. That man who bore his same face, who spoke with his same voice, and who knew things about him that even he himself did not claim.

  -Mr. Twain… they're already gone.-Murmured an old man with a calm voice.

  But Ulises did not respond. He only continued sobbing, pounding the ground with clenched fists until a fit of coughing overtook him. He brought a trembling hand to his mouth and, when he pulled it away, his fingers were stained with dark red. A spurt of blood had tainted the earth.

  The pain in his chest throbbed like a burning iron. His breathing was erratic, his body trembled, and his mind was caught in a whirlwind of unanswered questions. Who was he? Why did he wear his face? What did his words mean?

  Unconsciously, his brain searched through all his memories for any clue that might solve his doubts.

  But it was not an answer that he found.

  Instead, it was an old memory—very old—from his childhood.

  The world became warmer, lighter.

  There was grass beneath his bare feet, rough and cool to the touch. In front of him, a garden stretched in every direction: rows of pale-colored flowers, pots filled with damp soil, a narrow stone path winding between the bushes. In the center, a large tree cast an elongated shadow over the house, its leaves whispering softly in the breeze.

  It was his home.

  And there, under the tree’s shade, was his father.

  His silhouette stood tall against the golden light of the sunset. He wore a rolled-up-sleeve shirt and had a faint beard on his face.

  Ulises, then no more than six years old, ran along the path, his feet muddy and covered in leaves.

  -Dad! It’s not fair! I’ve been exploring the mountain all afternoon with my friends, and we haven’t found the evil wolf!-He said indignantly.

  His father let out a soft laugh.

  -My son, it doesn’t matter if you didn’t find the wolf.

  Stolen story; please report.

  -Of course it does! That’s why I went to the mountain!

  -You see, Ulises, what matters is not the end of a journey, but the journey itself, the path you take. It doesn’t matter if you didn’t catch the wolf—what matters is that you had a good time with your friends.

  Ulises thought for a few seconds. He probably wouldn’t understand his father.

  -Look at this, Ulises.-His father knelt down, bringing a compass into the boy’s view.

  Ulises stared at it in fascination. The needle swayed in tiny movements, always searching for a fixed point.

  -Do you know how it works?

  The child shook his head.

  -It always points north. No matter what happens, even if you don’t see the path, even if you feel lost, it will always show you where you are. So you can continue your journey, or at least have a starting point to begin one.

  Ulises frowned.

  -And what if you take it really far away? What if you get lost somewhere you’ve never been, and it doesn’t know where to go either?

  His father smiled.

  Ulises looked up at him, seeing the reflection of the sun in his eyes. The man snapped the compass shut and slid it into his shirt pocket. Then, he ruffled his son’s hair with a lighthearted chuckle.

  -What a complicated question, my boy,- he said with a warm smile-Come on, it’s time for dinner.

  The child nodded and ran alongside him, his small steps echoing over the stone path.

  The scene faded into the desert breeze.

  And Ulises opened his eyes again.

  Night was beginning to fall over the town. His body still trembled, but the weight in his chest had become slightly lighter.

  He had to keep going.

  He staggered to his feet, wiping the blood from his mouth with his sleeve. His gaze remained fixed in the direction where his double had disappeared.

  -I'm going to follow them.-He murmured in a hoarse voice, pulling his father’s compass from his pocket.

  And he started walking.

  But someone stopped him.

  -You won’t get very far on foot.-Said a voice behind him.

  It was an older man, with rough hands and a tired face. He rested one hand on the handlebar of a dusty motorcycle—a Royal Enfield Himalayan 411.

  -Take it.

  Ulises frowned.

  -No.

  -Don’t worry, I don’t use it anymore—I’m too old.

  -I don’t want charity.

  -Then think of it as a trade. Take it, and bring me something interesting when you return. A story to tell, perhaps from some faraway land.

  Before Ulises could respond, more people started approaching.

  -Take this. You’ll need it.-A woman offered him a thick coat.

  -Here, some fuel.-Another handed him a small canister.

  -This blanket is good against the cold.-Said an old woman.

  One by one, the items began to pile up before him. Clothes, supplies, tools, saddlebags for the bike.

  Ulises felt a lump in his throat. He didn’t know how to accept it. He didn’t know if he should accept it. But when he looked at the people around him, he understood something:

  “No one here was doing it out of pity. They did it because they wanted to help.”

  Because they wanted him to keep going.

  And so, for the first time in a long while, Ulises stopped rejecting the outstretched hand of another.

  With his backpack loaded and the engine roaring beneath him, he waited for the first light of dawn.

  The town slowly awakened—some villagers peeked from their doorways, watching the man about to depart. The motorcycle vibrated beneath his hands, the scent of gasoline permeating the cold morning air.

  When the sun broke over the horizon, he twisted the throttle and rode off.

  The journey had begun.