The village had no clocks. Time was measured in echoes.
The clink of a bone cup. The sweep of ash through the wind. The dry cough of an elder just before dawn.
But for Kanan, time was measured in Nilo's voice.
"Do you think beetles dream?" the boy asked, lying on his back, arms stretched out like wings.
Kanan blinked slowly. His eyes were worse than yesterday—foggy, heavy. The shapes around him smeared and twisted, the world reduced to light and shadow. But Nilo's voice… that was always clear.
"Beetles don't need dreams," Kanan said. "They fly."
"So do birds," Nilo replied, twirling the carved wooden spoon in his hands. "I bet they still dream. Of better skies."
They had found a fat beetle that morning—legs twitching, body glossy black. It was a feast. Nilo held it up now, triumphant, like a king with a trophy.
"Time for banquet!" he grinned.
Kanan sat upright, wincing as pain lanced through his knees. His limbs always felt like they didn't quite belong to him anymore—too light, too stiff. But he reached out, feeling for the flat cooking stone beside them.
Their ritual began.
They cracked dry twigs into a crooked pile, just enough for a small flame. Dung and bark scrap fed the fire. It was weak, but alive.
Nilo skewered the beetle with the spoon and held it over the flame, humming something tuneless and warm. Their mother used to hum like that. A memory lost in hunger.
"She used to say the world had flavors," Nilo murmured. "Soft things. Warm things. Not like this."
Kanan didn't speak. He just listened. He didn't trust his voice not to shake.
When the beetle had crisped, Nilo split it. He offered Kanan the larger piece.
"You're older," he said.
Kanan hesitated, then pushed it back. "You're stronger."
They didn't eat right away. They just sat close, letting the heat from the fire soak into their thin skin. The smoke curled into the air, swallowed by the brittle wind that never stopped blowing across the plains.
"I'm going to cook real food someday," Nilo whispered.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Soup. Meat. Bread that doesn't crack your teeth."
Kanan leaned back, letting the world blur even more. He imagined steam rising from bowls, his mother's hands carrying trays of food. He imagined colour.
"Someday," he said.
Nilo held the spoon up to the stars.
"Do you think this is the same spoon Mama used?" he asked.
Kanan didn't answer at first. He knew it was.
"She carved it," he said softly. "From a green tree."
"Green…"
"Before the dry took everything."
The spoon caught the firelight. It was worn, cracked, but still whole. A relic. A story made solid.
Nilo lowered it slowly.
"Sir Kanan of the Cracked Plains," he said, mimicking a nobleman's tone, "do you accept this offering of roasted beetle leg in powdered dirt sauce?"
Kanan managed a tired smile. "I accept."
They took their bites, chewed slowly, like kings savoring something rare and sacred.
Afterward, Nilo leaned his head on Kanan's shoulder. The fire flickered low, casting shadows that looked like dancing spirits across the cracked stone walls.
"Hey," Nilo whispered, after a long silence. "I heard something today."
Kanan stirred.
"From the old man near the edge of the village. He said… sometimes the land breathes. Like it's trying to wake up."
Kanan tilted his head. "Breathe?"
"Yeah. He said he felt it once. Under his feet. Like a slow heartbeat."
Kanan went quiet.
"Do you believe him?" he finally asked.
Nilo grinned. "I don't know. But if the land is sleeping… I hope it dreams of us."
That night, under a flickering sky and the brittle hum of wind, Kanan didn't dream of food or light.
He dreamt of the ground beneath him shifting ever so slightly… like something stirring far below.
[To Be Continued...]