He was sitting on the edge of a simple bed in a cheap rented room, spreading his few belongings across the mattress as if trying to decide what truly mattered to take along. Ernesto folded his clothes with practical care, unhurried, pausing now and then to glance at the crumpled map on the table. The room smelled like the road — dust, cheap soap, and something undefined that felt like departure. There was no outside pressure, only an inner restlessness that never let him stay still for too long.

He stopped in front of the cracked mirror on the wall, adjusting his shirt and running a hand through his hair as if trying to recognize his own reflection. “Just one more trip.” He murmured to himself, without much conviction. The tone wasn’t excited or dramatic — it was curious, almost tired, like someone who didn’t yet know what he was searching for, only that he had to keep moving. He picked up the backpack, weighed it on his shoulder, judging whether it was light enough for long days on the road.

Before leaving, Ernesto returned to the map, tracing a route with his finger, following paths that seemed random but made sense to him. There were no speeches, no heroic plans, no certainty — only motion. He turned off the light, opened the door, and left the room behind, carrying that strange mix of freedom and unease with him. In that moment, he was still just a traveler following instinct… unaware that the road was already shaping something far greater.