Yesterday was supposed to be our departure.
Instead, Deep Red decided otherwise.
The storm arrived before dawn.
Not gradually.
Not politely.
One moment there was only darkness beyond the tents.
The next, the entire world seemed to vanish behind moving walls of red sand.
Nobody argued.
Nobody complained.
Not even the strangers traveling alongside us.
Everyone simply accepted that the desert had spoken.
And that for one more day, nobody would be leaving.
So we waited.
The storm continued.
The wind screamed through Redthread Hollow without pause.
Tent fabric trembled constantly.
Sand found its way into everything.
Food.
Clothes.
Books.
Thoughts.
At some point during the morning I noticed movement outside.
Not panic.
Not preparation.
Something else.
The Sandwalkers were gathering.
One by one they emerged from their tents and walked toward the center of the camp.
No announcements.
No instructions.
No visible leader.
Just quiet certainty.
As though every person already knew exactly where they belonged.
Later, the Sandwalker who had told me the story of Ashenstride explained what I had witnessed.
The ritual is called:
The Four Breaths of the Scar.
According to him, it is one of the oldest traditions still practiced among the Redthread People.
Not a religious obligation.
Not punishment.
Not even a celebration.
A remembrance.
A way to remain themselves.
The first breath began at dawn.
The Breath of Awakening.
The storm still darkened the sky when they assembled.
The wind carried countless grains of red sand through the camp like drifting embers.
The Sandwalkers stood in a wide circle.
Tall.
Thin.
Silent.
Most wore only simple cloth around their waists.
Their skin already carried countless old scars.
Not hidden.
Not displayed proudly.
Simply present.
Then they raised their hands toward the storm.
Palms open.
Facing the sky.
Nobody spoke.
Instead, they inhaled together.
A long, rough breath.
Deep enough that I could hear it even from inside my tent.
Then another.
And another.
The sound echoed strangely beneath the storm.
Hundreds of lungs moving together.
Like a sleeping creature awakening.
Some carried small cuts across their palms.
Fresh blood mixed briefly with the red sand before vanishing.
Later I asked why.
The Sandwalker answered simply:
“We wake the old wounds so they remember us.”
I am still not entirely sure what that means.
But I think perhaps they do.
The second breath occurred during midday.
The Breath of Endurance.
The storm had become violent by then.
Even standing outside felt painful.
The sand struck exposed skin like needles.
Every gust carried enough force to sting.
Yet the Sandwalkers walked into it willingly.
Some stood motionless.
Others knelt.
A few opened their arms toward the wind as if embracing it.
The storm battered them relentlessly.
Their clothing snapped violently.
Sand scraped against old scars.
Fresh cuts appeared.
Tiny red lines crossing weathered skin.
Yet nobody cried out.
The only sounds were the wind and their breathing.
Short.
Sharp.
Controlled.
Watching them felt strangely uncomfortable.
Not because they seemed fanatical.
Because they seemed peaceful.
As though enduring hardship was no longer an act of resistance.
Only familiarity.
When I asked what the second breath meant, the Sandwalker answered:
“The storm hurts us.”
Then after a pause:
“So we remember we are alive.”
The simplicity of the answer unsettled me more than anything else that day.
By evening the storm finally began weakening.
The Breath of Acceptance followed.
This was my favorite.
And somehow the saddest.
The Sandwalkers gathered once more.
But this time they sat together in the sand.
No longer facing the storm.
Facing one another.
The wounds from earlier remained visible.
Small cuts.
Raw skin.
Places where the desert had left its mark.
Then they began cleaning each other's injuries.
No speeches.
No rituals spoken aloud.
Just hands.
Gentle hands removing sand from cuts.
Checking bruises.
Cleaning blood.
The movements were slow.
Careful.
Almost tender.
For the first time since arriving in Deep Red, I understood something important.
The ritual was never truly about pain.
Pain was only the language.
The ritual itself was about people.
About surviving together.
About ensuring nobody carried the storm alone.
The Sandwalker beside me later explained:
“Pain arrives by itself.”
“Endurance should not.”
I wrote that sentence down immediately.
The final breath came after nightfall.
The Breath of Renewal.
The storm had finally passed.
The stars returned.
The camp became quiet.
A small fire burned at the center of their circle.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing sacred-looking.
Just enough light to push back the darkness.
The Sandwalkers stood around it hand in hand.
Their injuries now cleaned.
Oil from desert plants glistening faintly across scarred skin.
The firelight reflected across old wounds and new ones alike.
Making it impossible to tell which scars belonged to yesterday and which belonged to decades ago.
Then they breathed together one final time.
Slow.
Deep.
Steady.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Eventually the breaths synchronized completely.
The sound became strangely beautiful.
Not singing.
Not prayer.
Not language.
Just people breathing together beneath an enormous sky.
One breath.
Shared by many bodies.
The Sandwalker later told me:
“Today’s wounds become tomorrow’s scars.”
“And tomorrow’s scars become part of the story.”
Then he looked toward the dying fire.
“Nothing disappears.”
For a moment I thought about the old compass resting inside my bag.
About journals.
About unfinished promises.
About ancestors.
About stories.
Perhaps the Sandwalkers and the DeLunas are not as different as I first believed.
We simply preserve things differently.
My family preserves stories with ink.
The Redthread People preserve them with scars.
Both are attempts to answer the same fear.
That one day we might suffer.
And nobody will remember.
The storm is gone now.
Tomorrow we leave Redthread Hollow.
The strangers who traveled here beside us will continue east.
The Sandwalkers will remain.
The wind will return.
The scars will remain.
And somewhere beneath the endless red sands of Deep Red—
people will continue breathing together.
Remembering.
Enduring.
Renewing.
One story at a time.
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