“This is Litéia Village. Or what's left of it, because half of it is abandoned,” Faro said, with no emotion in his voice.

  At first glance, it seemed like just a simple village, slightly neglected but still functional. Brick houses, some unfinished, as expected in a place where wood was a luxury and shade, a privilege. The streets were dirt roads, with stretches of stones placed irregularly — traces of a time when someone, once, had enough hope to pave the ground.

  When we reached the top of the main street, the decay became more obvious: empty houses, warped doors, broken windows, roots invading what had once been fireplace, kitchen, life. We continued to a faded square where the hot wind dragged dry leaves as if that was all that remained of an old movement.

  “I'm hungry,” Faro complained. “Let's eat at the canteen. Marta cooks well.”

  “I didn't see crops or gardens. How do you get food?”

  “There's a stream down there,” he answered, pointing without interest. “Three types of greens grow on the banks and some roots. What grows underground is usually edible. What grows above... is almost always poisonous. If it's green, don't put it in your mouth. Meat is safe, as long as it's dried.”

  The fact that Faro bothered to explain surprised me. Maybe now that we were in the village, he felt safe enough to talk without fear.

  We approached the square where a few people walked — ten, maybe. There were no children. Only adults with tired eyes, speaking in low murmurs. It didn't look like a living place; it looked like a place that resisted.

  And then I saw her.

  A little girl hidden behind a barrel far too large for her. A face of six years, maybe less. Dirty. Thin. Eyes so heavy with sadness that it felt like a blow to the back of my head. Literally — a sharp pain burst behind my skull, making me stop and bend instinctively.

  The child got scared when I moved, jumped up and ran to the opposite side of the square. Faro laughed at her, as if it were funny. As if it were normal.

  I wanted to go after her. Do something. But it wasn't the time. AX was certainly perceiving everything, and one wrong move could compromise the mission. All that remained was the pain — and the strange realization that never, in my entire life, had I seen the eyes of a truly sad child.

  I followed her movement with my eyes. I just wanted to know if she was alright. But what I saw next ripped away any illusion I still held about that place.

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  A young woman was tied by the hands to a post, sitting on the ground. She wore only a collar around her neck. Her head shaved. Her ears cut off. Her expression... a silent request for an end.

  “A slave?” I murmured, my throat tightening. “So young...”

  “Young?” Faro smirked, with disdain. “That one is over seventy years old. She's been a slave for a long time.”

  “A Selium?” I asked, calculating quickly. In Earth equivalence, she was over ninety-eight. “And the ears?”

  “They cut them. And shave their hair. So they don't try to go back home,” he said, laughing. “She's useless now. Lost the strength in her legs. She can't walk anymore.”

  “Then why is she tied?”

  “I'm hungry. Forget that and let's go,” he said, annoyed by my insistence.

  It was revolting. Absurdly revolting. Centuries had passed since the last slavery on Earth. And the Sekvens never mentioned anything like this on Donna. Only hatred between peoples — but never its full extent.

  I followed Faro to the canteen, though my body rejected the idea of eating. Inside, there were voices and laughter — a grotesque contrast to what lay outside. I just wanted to disappear, return to the ship, breathe clean air, stay away from that kind of humanity.

  Were we like that? Donna screamed yes.

  I prayed we were not.

  We destroyed our civilization once — and another species needed to save what was left of our evolution. The Sekvens existed because the Miliamedes had seen, centuries ago, that the different were killed, ignored, or discarded. So they saved the few who had the DNA Unido — so rare that one or two were born per billion. And still, we survived only because of mercy from others.

  “New face!” said a woman as she approached when we sat down.

  “I'm a traveler. William,” I replied.

  “Marta, I want meat with potatoes. My friend here pays,” Faro said, pointing at me as if I were his purse.

  “And you?” Marta asked.

  “Just water,” I replied. I couldn't swallow a single piece of food.

  Marta brought Faro's plate. The strong smell spread, but I was too absorbed to react. I knew I would encounter misery — every dystopia carries it like a scar — but knowing wasn't the same as feeling.

  “Marta, is there anyone here who likes stories? Legends?” I asked.

  “The shoemaker's daughter. She likes to read. Has books. Sometimes reads for us at the bonfire in the square.”

  Something lit up inside me.

  “Great. I'm traveling to collect tales,” I said, sincere and hopeful.

  “So that's why you speak funny. Must be from far away.”

  “I don't speak funny,” I retorted. I had studied too much to accept that.

  “Traveling alone? It's dangerous. And don't count too much on Faro,” Marta warned.

  “He carries an old time machine,” Faro said proudly.

  “A... relic?” Marta stepped back. “I thought that was only a story.”

  “It's just a light. Not a weapon,” I answered, carefully. It wasn't a lie, and I really wanted to keep that truth simple.

  While Faro devoured the food, I observed the canteen more closely: everything was old, patched, worn to the limit. Nothing was thrown away. Every object seemed to have belonged to three generations before arriving there.

  We stayed about forty minutes. Since I had no salt, Marta accepted a pocketknife from my backpack — and thanked me as if it were gold.

  But then something happened.

  And everything changed.