Parched

Six Months Earlier…

I woke up with grit in my mouth.
Could’ve been sand. Could’ve been teeth.
No moisture. Tongue stuck to the roof. Nothing there to help it.

I swallowed air. It didn’t work.

Somewhere ahead—rushing water. Loud, too loud.
Didn’t match the world around it.
No mist, no wetness. Just the sound.

The rocks under me looked like they’d been shaped by centuries of current.
They were bone dry.

A waterfall poured in the distance.
Except it didn’t.
It moved, but the droplets didn’t fall. They just hung there, shimmering, flickering.

My body got up before I decided to.
Legs moved. Eyes lagged behind.
The light hurt. Not bright. Just wrong.

I raised my hand—just to see, maybe to block.
Two shadows fell.
I don’t know whose the second one was.

In front of me: a tripod, sunken, no camera. Just the plate.
It looked familiar. I didn’t want to say how.

The wind shifted sideways. Or maybe it didn’t.

I moved toward the tripod.
It felt like reaching through air that remembered being water.

The waterfall glitched. That’s the only word that fits.
It stuttered once and became a lake.
Not closer. Not farther. Just there. A surface. No reflection. Just... blank.

I stepped forward, thirsty. Not just dry—but forgotten.
Like I didn’t remember how to drink.

A sharp crack under my foot. Plastic.
I dug it out.

A lens cap.

On the inside:
f/0.0 — shutter stuck
Scratched in, almost angry.

I didn’t like that.

I looked up. The lake hadn’t moved.
But it was farther now.
Or I was smaller.

And then I saw it.

A reflection. Not in the lake.
Just near it.
Standing still. Upright. Watching. Like it knew I was about to try again.

Click.

No camera.

But something wanted to remember anyway.