-3nd Rest-

I…had a very strange dream last night. In it, I found myself as a child once more, standing in my Meemaw's kitchen—the warm, familiar smell of baking filling the air. The old kitchen looked exactly as I remembered it—wooden cabinets, the floral-patterned curtains swaying slightly as if from a breeze, though the windows were closed. The warmth of the oven wrapped around me like a comforting blanket, and there she stood, my Meemaw, as real as the day she passed.

She greeted me with a smile that seemed to light up the entire room—the kind of smile only she could give, full of love and understanding. Without a word, she handed me one of her famous oatmeal cookies, still warm, whose scent was a mix of cinnamon and vanilla. I could almost taste the cookie before I bit into it—sweet, soft, and perfectly baked, just as I remembered from countless afternoons spent in that kitchen.

Under ordinary circumstances, I would keep such personal musings to myself, but this experience was so peculiar that I felt compelled to document it. I haven't thought about my meemaw in years—her memory, though cherished, had receded into the background of my mind, overshadowed by the demands of adulthood and the burdens of the current expedition. Yet, this dream was unlike anything I have ever encountered; it was the most vivid dream I can recall, rich with detail and emotion.

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When I woke, I found myself grappling with a strange uncertainty. For a brief, disorienting moment, I questioned whether I had actually just been there in that kitchen, experiencing those cherished moments seconds ago—that was how real it felt. I couldn’t tell if it was a memory, a dream, or something that just happened.

But what unsettled me most about this dream was that I experienced it in monochrome. The vibrant colors of my childhood, the warm browns of my meemaw's kitchen, the golden hues of the sunlight filtering through the window—everything was stripped away, leaving behind a stark palette of grays.

Initially, I harbored concerns that I might already be succumbing to the graying effect of this strange land. However, a glance at my brightly colored tent and the vibrant hues of my clothing offered a moment of reassurance. The bold reds and blues stood in stark contrast to the encroaching grayness that surrounded us, providing a small sanctuary of color amid the desolation.

From what I had read, the onset of the graying process typically required a more extended exposure to the Graylands than we had endured thus far. It was said to creep upon a person slowly, like a fog rolling in from the sea, dulling senses and spirits alike.

What could this all mean? Is it simply a manifestation of my own psyche, a way to escape the relentless grayness that now surrounds me? Or is it a harbinger of something more sinister?