I spent the whole day without purpose, as if trying not to rush fate.

  I drank coffee at a sidewalk café, read the local newspaper, wandered through alleys, and browsed the windows of antique shops.

  But my eyes kept returning to the clock.

  The sun was still high, and somewhere in a dead-end behind the butcher’s rows, the green door was waiting for its hour.

  The closer evening came, the tighter something wound inside me.

  Not fear.

  Not anxiety.

  Something else.

  The kind of feeling a surgeon gets before a difficult operation. Or someone returning to a place they once swore never to return.

  The sun dipped toward the horizon. I headed toward the market.

  The butcher’s stalls were nearly empty. The air was thick with the smell of blood and smoke — thin, red, like mist.

  Deep in one of the passages, I found the dead end.

  Cracked plaster walls, trash, old crates, sealed wooden doors.

  And one green.

  Faded paint. A brass handle. A strange symbol carved into the doorframe — a circle crossed by a triangle.

  I stepped closer. Knocked three times.

  A pause. Silence.

  Then — a creak. The door opened a few inches.

  Someone stood inside, cloaked in the dimness.

  “Who are you?”

  The voice was hoarse. Not old — just tired.

  I stepped forward and said my name.

  The door opened wider.

  Eyes studied me from the dark, not looking at my face, but deeper — as if trying to see what was left of the person underneath.

  “You were there…” the voice said. “The first time. I remember you.”

  The door swung open.

  He was in his fifties. Lean. Dark beard. Eyes like a physician’s — not judging, but searching for what’s not obvious.

  He wore linen trousers and a pale shirt. Tzitzit fringes hung from underneath.

  He moved with quiet precision — like every step had already been calculated.

  He gestured to a chair by the table and sat opposite me.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  For a moment, the room was still.

  “You have no idea how many years we’ve waited for you to return,” he said. “You’ve seen it, Chelagho. You were there. And back then, you did the only thing you could — you left yourself a trace. Now you’re following it.”

  I didn’t respond.

  But something inside shifted. Like a stone rolling down a slope, hitting another.

  Memory moved — slow, reluctant, but unstoppable.

  It came without warning. I didn’t realize I was no longer in the room.

  …the desert roared. Stones trembled. The air was tight like a drawn string. Above us — a gray sky. Beneath — an ancient ziggurat, so old it seemed built before time itself. And from below — a voice. Or many. Not sound, but memory converging into sound.

  Then — light. Greenish-white, like marble beneath skin. Waves pulsed from within the stone. We didn’t run — we were pushed. Someone screamed. Someone caught fire. The ground underfoot softened, became flesh-like. And then I heard:

  “You opened me.”

  That’s when I ran.

  I surfaced with a dry snap in my chest. Zusya didn’t look surprised. He knew.

  “We didn’t know what it was,” I whispered. “We didn’t know what we were dealing with.”

  He nodded, without judgment.

  “And yet you survived.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a merit.”

  “Maybe not,” he said. “Maybe it’s memory. Because you had to reach this point.”

  He leaned forward, voice firming.

  “Listen carefully. You must get to Gabès. It’s a city on the edge of the sands. There’s a man there who guides people through the dunes. He won’t ask questions.

  Say the word Shamir. He’ll understand.”

  He opened a drawer and took out a thin parcel tied with string, placing it on the table.

  “This is a fragment of the map — a copy from the manuscript. The scale may be off, but the landmarks are accurate.

  And a list of names. People you once knew. Some of them may already be on the way.”

  I took the parcel and slid it into my bag.

  “Why now?” I asked. “Why not earlier?”

  Zusya turned to the window.

  “Because before, you weren’t ready. And because only you can stop what’s waking up.”

  He paused. Then added quietly:

  “I understand you, Chelagho. Once, I commanded too. Not infantry — machines. We called them Chariots. Steam-powered walking tanks. I led a platoon.”

  He wasn’t telling me a story. He was remembering.

  “It was a farm. At night. We moved in formation — eight units, frontal charge, narrow terrain. And then the ground screamed. Ottoman walkers came up from the trenches, dragging hooks and chains. It turned into close combat. Iron against iron. Steel against steam. We fired at point-blank. Machines flipped. Burned. My Eitven was the last one moving. I had to manage pressure manually. She groaned like an old woman — but she kept walking.”

  He was looking at the window, but I felt the battle standing just behind his back.

  “After that, I deserted and went to the Yeshiva. The friends who survived — they understood. I was broken. But I swore one day I’d repay the debt.

  The students looked at me like I was a curiosity.

  But I didn’t need their understanding.

  I needed silence. And God.”

  He turned to me. His face was stern, but in his voice — that rare tone of a survivor’s mercy.

  “You’re not a savior, Chelagho. But you are the bridge. Between what was… and what may still be.

  You have a chance. One time.”

  He stepped closer and placed a hand on my shoulder. Firm. Like a soldier.

  “You’re not alone.

  Even if it feels that way.”