The fire crackles, its glow tracing the sharp planes of Almásy’s face, casting deep shadows beneath his eyes. He sits with his long legs stretched out, one arm draped over his knee, the other hand holding a cigarette that smolders between his fingers. His gaze flickers to you, something unreadable in the depths of it something slow and contemplative, as if he is trying to solve a puzzle without knowing what picture the pieces are meant to create.

“You remind me of something,” he murmurs, voice low, rasping slightly from the desert air. He takes a drag from his cigarette, exhales slowly. “Not someone. Something.”

You raise a brow, waiting.

He shifts slightly, turning the cigarette between his fingers as if debating whether to continue. And then he does.

“There is a painting,” he says. “Somewhere in Europe. Few people ever stop to look at it. It isn’t grand, not the kind that draws crowds. But it is… striking. A woman, dressed in something dark, her face turned away, as if caught just before disappearing into shadow.” He pauses, glancing at you. “It stayed with me. I couldn’t understand why. And now I do.”

The fire pops, sending a spray of embers into the night. Almásy watches them rise, glowing briefly before fading into the black sky.

“You are like that,” he continues. “Not the subject of the painting, but the moment it captures. A glimpse before something vanishes. A thing that refuses to be fully known.” His lips curve slightly, but there is no humor in it. “Infuriating, really.”

You don’t reply, and he doesn’t expect you to. Instead, he leans back, resting his head against the crate behind him, staring into the fire.

“Do you know why I love the desert?” he asks after a long silence. His tone is different now—softer, introspective, as if he is speaking more to himself than to you. “People think it is empty. A wasteland. But it isn’t. It remembers everything. Every footprint, every track, even the ones the wind steals away. If you know how to look, nothing is truly lost.”