I, Leo, and my younger brother Martin had slept deeply, the kind of sleep that pulls you so completely under that even the world outside ceases to exist. And yet, in that sleep, we had shared the same dream—a desert stretching endlessly under a scorching sun, its sands shimmering like molten gold.

When we woke at seven in the morning, the hazy remnants of the dream clung to us, but the truth was undeniable. The desert wasn’t a creation of our minds. It was real. And somehow, inexplicably, we were here. How we had arrived, or why, was a question with no answer.

Martin rubbed his eyes and sat up, squinting at the harsh sunlight. “I’m thirsty,” he murmured, his voice rough from sleep. “Water’s rare here. Finding it… it’s going to be hard.”

I looked around at the barren expanse, feeling the heat radiate from the sand underfoot. Not a tree, not a rock—just an endless horizon that promised nothing but challenge. And yet, there was a strange thrill in the uncertainty, a tug at the part of me that had always longed for adventure.

We rose to our feet, dust slipping between our fingers as we brushed it off. The desert stretched endlessly in every direction, the sun climbing higher, its heat pressing down on our backs like a heavy hand. My throat was already dry, and I could see the same unease mirrored in Martin’s eyes.

“Leo… where do we even start?” he asked, his voice tinged with both fear and determination.

I swallowed, trying to push back the panic rising in my chest. “We look for water. Shade. Anything that can help us survive.” I didn’t know where to begin either, but saying it out loud gave me a strange, fragile courage.

The wind shifted, carrying with it the sharp, dry scent of sand and a faint, distant rustle. Perhaps there was life here—some sign, some clue. Or perhaps it was just the wind playing tricks on us. Either way, we had to keep moving.

Step by step, our footprints marked the endless dunes. With each step, the reality of our situation sank deeper. This was no dream. And yet, beneath the fear, a flicker of something else stirred—curiosity, adventure, the unspoken promise that this desert, though merciless, held secrets waiting to be discovered.

Martin paused and pointed to a shadow on the horizon, faint but distinct. “Leo… do you see that? It looks like…” He trailed off, uncertainty in his voice.

I squinted, trying to make it out. A solitary figure? A rock formation? Or perhaps something else entirely. Either way, it was the first sign that we weren’t completely alone in this vast, endless wilderness.

It was a Western rider, just as helpless as we were. His horse stumbled slightly in the loose sand, and he slumped forward, exhaustion written into every line of his body. Dust covered his coat and hat, and his face was streaked with sweat and grit.

We approached cautiously, unsure if he would be friendly—or even sane after being alone in this desert. The rider lifted his head slowly, eyes scanning us with a mix of fear and relief.

“Water… please…” he rasped, his voice barely carrying over the hot wind. “Anything… water…”

Martin and I exchanged a glance. “Looks like he’s been out here a long time,” I murmured.

The rider’s horse shivered, and he reached out instinctively to steady it, showing that he, too, was struggling to survive in this unforgiving place.

For the first time since we arrived, the three of us—two brothers and a lone rider—shared a silent understanding: in this desert, no one could survive alone.

Leo and Martin moved forward cautiously, the Western rider following behind us. We were all searching desperately for anything—water, shade, shelter—as the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon. The heat was relentless, and the desert seemed to shimmer with illusions.

Soon, mirages began to appear. Martin, my younger brother, squinted at the sand ahead. “Look! Water!” he exclaimed, running toward a patch that rippled like a shallow pond.

I shook my head, though my own eyes tricked me. In the distance, I thought I saw a small, clear pool glinting in the sun. The Western rider pointed eagerly, convinced he could make out a lone palm tree swaying gently.

But as we drew closer, the truth became painfully clear. The water vanished, the pool disappeared, and the palm was nothing more than a trick of light—another cruel mirage teasing us in the desert.

We stumbled to a halt, panting, our hopes dashed again. The heat pressed down like a weight, and the endless sand stretched farther than ever. Yet, in that fleeting moment of despair, we knew we had to keep going. For in this desert, giving up meant certain death.

We continued walking, each step heavier than the last, the desert stretching endlessly around us. Suddenly, the ground ahead seemed to writhe, and before we could react, snakes slithered out from the sand.

Leo and Martin froze in terror. Both of them had a deep fear of snakes, and it showed instantly—their breaths quickened, and they took a step back, eyes wide with panic.

The Western rider’s horse, sensing danger, reared and bolted away, throwing the rider off balance. He struggled to regain control, but the horse disappeared over the dunes, leaving him momentarily exposed and vulnerable.

“Watch out!” I shouted, grabbing Martin’s arm. The snakes hissed and coiled, their scales glinting in the fading sunlight. We moved carefully, trying not to provoke them, each step a delicate balance between fear and survival.

Just as despair began to creep in, in the distance we spotted something that made our hearts race—a small, old house, standing alone amidst the sand. Its weathered walls seemed fragile, but it promised shelter, shade, and perhaps safety.

Even as the mirages of the desert taunted us, we knew we had to reach that house before night fell completely.

We cautiously entered the small, weathered house, its walls little more than sand and scattered stones, a fragile shelter in the endless desert. Inside, to our astonishment, was a girl—about Martin’s age, eleven—but somehow she looked older, more knowing than her years should allow.

We didn’t speak at first, unsure what to make of her presence. The room was dim, dust motes dancing in the pale light filtering through cracks in the walls. The girl watched us silently, a strange smile playing at the corners of her lips.

The next morning, we woke to an eerie silence. Where the Western rider’s horse had stood the day before, there was nothing—except a mask, lying in the sand. The realization hit us at once: the girl had tricked us.

The house wasn’t a real refuge. The walls, the floor, even the shelter itself—it was little more than desert sand and a few scattered stones, arranged to deceive wandering travelers like us. She had toyed with us, her older-looking eyes hiding secrets we could not yet understand.

We exchanged uneasy glances. The desert had already tested us with mirages, snakes, and the relentless sun, but this—this was a new kind of danger. One that came not from nature, but from someone who seemed to know its cruel rules far better than we ever could.

We stood up and began following the tracks in the desert sand, the deep impressions left by the horse guiding our way. The wind whispered across the dunes, carrying with it the faint, distant sound of hooves.

The Western rider, Markus, leaned close to us, his voice low and tense. “There… there are many horses and riders coming,” he said, eyes narrowing against the glare of the sun. Spears glinted faintly in the distance, catching the light like shards of metal.

Martin’s eyes widened as he looked at the approaching riders. “Are they… hunting?” he asked, glancing at Markus with a mixture of fear and curiosity.

Markus shook his head slowly. “I don’t know yet… but whatever they’re doing, it’s not for fun. Stay close and be ready.”

The sand beneath our feet seemed suddenly heavier, each step echoing with the weight of uncertainty. Ahead, the riders drew nearer, their presence growing larger and more intimidating. In that moment, the desert felt even more vast, even more dangerous, and we realized that survival meant not just finding water or shelter—but staying one step ahead of those who might see us as prey.

Leaving the riders behind, we continued on our way, our legs heavy but determined. Finally, we spotted a small village in the distance, its modest buildings a welcome sight after the endless desert.

We approached one of the older men in the village and asked for water. He nodded friendly and handed us a small jug to refresh our parched throats. "There's a small hotel over there," he said, pointing down a narrow road. "You can rest and eat there."

Gratefully, we made our way to the hotel. The three of us—Leo, Martin, and Western rider—took a single room. Exhaustion overcame us almost immediately. Leo and I fell into a deep, undisturbed sleep.

The next morning, at eight o'clock sharp, we awoke in the familiar surroundings of our childhood bedroom. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, and for a moment, I felt as if the desert had been a dream.

Martin, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, looked at me—Leo, his older brother—and whispered, "Was it real?"

I didn't answer right away. But then I noticed something that dispelled all doubts: My slippers next to the bed were still filled with desert sand.

I looked at Martin and said quietly, "Yes... it was real."