After several hours, he opened his eyes as the first rays of the star pierced through his closed eyelids, bathing his face in a warm sensation, as if calling him back to reality. He rose slowly; his body felt heavy, as though the planet itself was trying to keep him seated. He glanced at his watch—its hands showed that eight hours had passed since the star had set.
He realized that nighttime on the planet lasted no more than eight hours—a much shorter span than he was used to. Still, that was a good thing for him. He wasn't entirely sure how long the day would last, but he knew he had more than ten hours before darkness would once again envelop everything around him.
He began walking in the same direction he had previously chosen. The breeze returned with a moderate chill, carrying with it a faint scent of moisture mingled with the freshness of grass—and that sharp, pungent smell, now slightly stronger.
Despite the rest he had gotten, the young man felt that movement had become more difficult than the day before. His legs dragged his body as if burdened by invisible weights. The muscles in his thighs pulsed with heat, reminding him of the relentless effort he had exerted. Nevertheless, it didn't deter his resolve for even a moment. He continued walking, his eyes fixed on the horizon, as if searching for something far off.
Hours of uninterrupted walking passed again. During that time, the young man noticed no change in the scenery around him. He began to question whether his decision to land in this vast green expanse had been the right one. From above, even through the thick clouds, this area had appeared to be the best place for an emergency landing—his craft was on the verge of failure. Deep down, a voice within him whispered that if he had examined the terrain more carefully, he might have chosen a better spot.
But that voice was quickly silenced when he recalled the intensity of the moment—he hadn't had the luxury of time or choice. In fact, he felt a faint sense of gratitude just for being on this surface at all. The mere fact that his ship had brought him this far was more than he could have asked from an aging machine unused for decades.
As he continued walking, the sky began to take on a pale blue hue as midday approached. He paused, took a deep breath, and felt the air fill his lungs—but it was no longer as refreshing as before. The sharp odor in the air was more concentrated now.
He rubbed his nose and tightened the straps of his backpack, heading toward a tall hill, driven by a desire to escape the monotony that surrounded him. He hoped that the elevation might offer a new perspective—perhaps something different on the distant horizon, something to break the suffocating sameness. Climbing the hill wasn't easy; the grass clung to his boots, and he stumbled repeatedly over scattered rocks.
Upon reaching the summit, he paused briefly to catch his breath, then lifted his head and looked toward the horizon. It was as though he feared the view would be empty—devoid of anything to justify the effort. What he saw… was unchanged. The green plains stretched endlessly once again.
For a moment, a sense of being lost overcame him, as if the planet itself had decided to swallow him in its vastness. Yet he didn't lose hope entirely. He narrowed his eyes, trying to spot anything that broke the repetitive pattern. After straining his vision, he noticed—far away—a straight line disrupting the monotony of the plains. That line was strange, unnatural. It didn't resemble mountains or hills. It was a fine line stretching across a great distance, like a massive wall dividing the planet in two.
In that moment, a spark of hope ignited in his heart. He believed that this wall—perhaps, just perhaps—hid something different behind it: a civilization, people he could communicate with. Countless possibilities surged into his mind like a river, each enough to propel him forward with renewed energy. He took a deep breath, as if gathering his remaining strength, and then launched himself toward that distant line.
He ran as though racing against the sunset, determined to reach it before darkness returned. With every step, hope burned brighter within him. To him, that straight line was the key to escape. His thoughts swelled with optimism—perhaps he would find a city full of life, human voices, bustling markets, technology that could repair his ship. These thoughts were enough to make him forget the pain in his feet, the dryness of his throat, and the ache in his muscles worn by running.
As he drew closer, the details began to take shape before his weary eyes. At the same time, the excitement on his face started to fade, step by step. He finally stopped, his breath rapid—not just from physical exertion, but from the shock that gripped his heart.
A deep disappointment swept across his features, as if the flame of hope inside him had been extinguished. What he had thought was a wall turned out to be a colossal row of tightly packed giant trees, standing like a great barrier stretching endlessly in both directions. The sight was strange—unlike anything he had ever seen before—but it certainly wasn't what he had wished to find at that moment.
He approached the line of immense trees, his face weary. Each tree rose over a hundred meters high, defying the planet's strong gravity, as if striving to touch the sky. Their massive branches intertwined in a living, complex pattern—like giant hands stretching toward one another. The dim light filtering through the dense canopy created shifting patterns of shadow and light on the ground, as if the trees were playing a secret game with the fading rays of the star.
The trunks were massive and thick, resembling stone columns, each with a radius of no less than six meters, covered in rough bark. The leaves were enormous—each the size of a car or larger—with smooth surfaces that shimmered faintly, as if coated with a layer of frozen dew. They swayed gently in the breeze, emitting sounds akin to mysterious whispers, as if the trees were conversing in a language known only to them.
Despite his disappointment, the young man couldn't help but be mesmerized by the precise arrangement of these giant trees. Their extension wasn't random—they were aligned with astonishing precision, a level of order that seemed too deliberate to be entirely natural. It felt as though they had been planted with great care, perhaps by the hands of colossal beings.
While the botanical life was breathtaking, the absence of any signs of advanced life stirred a deep sense of loneliness. He had found no remnants of ancient civilizations, no voices, no signs of other creatures—only plant life, which offered little comfort in his solitude.
He understood, of course, that a habitable environment on a planet didn't necessarily imply the presence of complex life. The possibility that this world was devoid of any life forms beyond vegetation wasn't far-fetched.
The idea that he might be the only living being on this planet—perhaps the only one to have ever set foot on it—was more terrifying than he was willing to admit. The utter silence surrounding him, broken only by the rustling of wind through grass and leaves, echoed like an infinite void. Still, he tried to push the thought aside, focusing on his goal, though his mind kept returning to it, reminding him of his fragile existence in this vast expanse.
At that moment, the thought of returning to his ship crept into his mind. It was a fleeting idea, but enough to plant seeds of hesitation. He imagined himself retracing his steps, slipping back into the ship that now felt like an empty shell in this distant world, sitting behind the control panels and trying to restart its engines—only to find that they wouldn't respond.
Deep inside, he knew that option was nothing but an illusion. His ship, which had traveled so far through space, was no longer capable of flight. It needed extensive repairs and resources that were simply unavailable. He realized the idea of leaving that way was not only unrealistic—it was, as he bitterly put it to himself, foolish.
He took a deep breath, trying to calm his unsettled emotions, and refocused on the task ahead. He approached one of the massive trees and lifted his hand to touch its trunk. Its surface was rough, but carried a strange warmth, as if a pulse of life beat beneath its thick bark.
He now faced two options. The first, and bolder path, was to enter the forest, where darkness seemed to grow thicker with every step, and where he might encounter the unimaginable. The second option was safer—to walk along the forest's edge, hoping to find a passage or a way around that might lead him back to his original path. But as he looked again toward both ends of the horizon, it became clear that the forest stretched endlessly, enclosing the space from sunrise to sunset. There was nothing but this colossal wall.
He sat for a moment on a nearby rock, trying to think carefully. The decision wasn't easy by any measure. Entering the forest meant confronting the unknown and all its dangers. However, he also knew that going around it might be a waste of time and energy. He had to weigh the risks wisely—hesitation could cost him dearly.
After deep contemplation, he boldly chose the first option. He rose to his feet, checked his supplies, hoisted his heavy backpack onto his shoulders, and cast one final glance at the open horizon behind him—then took his first step into the forest.
As he walked among the trees, he felt the air shift around him. It was less cold, but denser. The sounds changed—the rustling of leaves grew deeper, and the darkness intensified with each step. Yet he didn't stop. Although sunset had not fully arrived, the forest was already pitch-black inside, barely penetrated by the last rays of light. It was as if the forest had decided to be a self-contained world, allowing no outside element to interfere with its order.
Entering the forest held at least one benefit that gave him some comfort: he would not have to face the freezing cold of night that dominated the open plains. The forest's warmth, high humidity, and heavy air provided a kind of temporary protection—those harsh winds couldn't penetrate this barrier.
As he continued walking through the darkness, a strong gust of that strange scent, which had lingered in his nose since the plains, rushed toward him. This time, it was overwhelming. He realized that its source—whatever it was—lay within this massive forest. The longer he inhaled it, the more he felt a sting in his nose, as if the scent was trying to impose itself, to mark him.
As the last strands of light faded completely, he found himself surrounded by deeper darkness than ever before. He pulled out a small flashlight, no bigger than his palm. Its beam became the only thing cutting through the dense gloom, like a sword slicing through an endless enemy.
It wasn't long before he encountered a new challenge. He had expected high humidity as he ventured deeper into the forest—but not this level of suffocating saturation. Even breathing became a strenuous, continuous effort. The air felt thick, soaked with moisture, as if the entire forest had wrapped him in an invisible layer of water, clinging to his skin, adding a suffocating weight.
Moving through this heavy atmosphere felt like wading through an air-bound swamp. Each step required twice the effort, and every brief stop to catch his breath felt like pausing at the bottom of the sea. Yet his determination to move forward outweighed any sense of fatigue.
His eyes remained alert, scanning every shadow, trying to catch every detail. His ears tuned to the faintest sounds—the rustle of giant leaves moving gently, sometimes shifting into what felt like whispers, as if the forest was speaking once more in its secret language.
When he looked up, he noticed numerous tree vines interwoven in intricate patterns, forming webs like those of colossal spiders. They hung in overlapping shapes—some flexible, others incredibly strong. Fallen leaves rested atop those webs, and occasionally, one would descend slowly to the forest floor, settling like natural carpets, leaving behind a soft yet resonant thud. The young man realized that having one fall on him might be an experience he'd rather avoid.