Groggy Migrid wobbles with his walking stick, until he tumbles down. Flat on his butt.

When he raises his head, he finds a black figure before him.

Blinking to clear the morning fog in his eyes, he finds it to be a man clad in black robes.

The man lowers himself to be the same as Migrid.

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Now that he could see the man’s face clearly, Migrid could say with his years of street-wisdom: ‘This man is not of us’’

“What’s your name?”

“...Migrid”

The man digs the sand near the street and clutches it.

After a moment’s sake, he questions again,

“Say Migrid, is it the same sun everyday or does it die and rebirth each day?”

Holding his chin, Migrid answers:

“Hmm… I ain’t consider me a sage, but if i must say… it gets born each day?”

Silence.

Until the man rises, drops the sand he’s holding and looks around.

“Nice, I’m somewhere in BCE…”

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