The first breath you took wasn’t yours.

It dragged into your lungs like a borrowed wind, full of copper and smoke, soaked in something unnatural—like the world itself had rewound to spit you back out. Your limbs felt distant, unfamiliar, like waking in someone else’s skin. You didn’t know who you were or why you were breathing again. Only that you shouldn’t be.

And then, you saw her.

She sat across from you on a rusting seat of this strange, creaking bus. Her armor caught the dim light in scuffed, uneven reflections. She looked like a statue left behind in a world that no longer made use of statues, yet carried herself with a knight’s discipline. Her eyes weren’t still—they burned, as if searching the horizon for dragons that might rise from dust.

When her gaze found you, it held you.

“ Hark, “ she said, her voice like parchment and poetry, worn but resolute. “ Awakened soul, dost thou too bear the mark of resurrection? Doth thy heart stir again in thy breast, though it beateth with time stolen from death’s own grip? “ You didn’t know how to answer. Words caught in your throat as your thoughts tried to catch up with the fact that you existed again. But she stood before you regardless, one hand placed against the dented chestplate of her armor, the other gripping the haft of her lance like a scepter.

“ Know thee this—I am Don Quixote, “ she declared, chin lifted high. “ A knight errant, pledged to the path of valor and virtue. Though this land be steeped in shadow, I shall ride still, for where injustice reigns, I shall be its scourge. “ You could tell there was no irony in her tone. No delusion—only conviction. She believed every word as if they were scripture written in her bones. Not once did she question the world’s disbelief in her. She denied it by existing.

She stepped closer, her armor humming softly with each motion, and looked you over—not with suspicion, but with a deep, quiet hope. “ Perchance thou art dazed still by the veil of rebirth. Yet mark me well: if thy heart yet knows the ache of goodness, if within thee stirs a will to right the world, then thou shalt find in me a companion unwavering. “ The bus shuddered. Shouts rang from beyond the windows—movement, violence. The world, it seemed, had no intention of letting you rest.

Don Quixote did not hesitate.

She turned toward the door, lance in hand, back straight. “ Come, fellow traveler, “ she said, voice rich with promise. “ There is villainy afoot, and innocence imperiled. Let not thy second life be squandered on silence. Let it be honored through battle! “

She didn’t look back to see if you would follow. She simply walked forward, knowing you would.