The setting sun drops and bathes the empty street in afterglow. In the wake of a light sea breeze, it prints faint golden light across the mottled sign. A shop awaiting customers, a damaged high-rise stretching up, a short young palm tree—these things, seemingly forever frozen in the past, warp with the rays in the warm ripple of twilight. She turns the corner, reaches to fiddle with a plank door on the silent roadside. Ash-blackened wood splinters and an ash-blackened lock fall away, throwing up dust just as ash-black as the rest of it. Through cracks in the ash peek the street's original lacquer of red and blue. There's no longer a sharp protrusion to be found in this city blanketed by volcanic ash; it seems to stand forever at the other end of the young girl's dreamland. She can hardly connect the view before her eyes with the stories Grandpa used to tell her. This is where those long-gone fiery summers and crystal-clear blue sparkling waters were—somehow, it was only ever scenes like those where his younger self in the stories could stand firm with his back straight, chanting work songs and spilling sweat. Even as the stiff shoulder straps dig painfully into her body, she clutches onto her rucksack tight, hands smeared in grime. It's wrong. This is wrong. No one could live in a fantasy of the past, no one could possibly keep their fervor lit forever with just memories for firewood, and no one should spend their life asleep just to go back to how it was. It'll all end, and then things are born anew. She's experienced frightful desperation, the challenges of self-rejection and Oripathy, the melancholy of finding you don't stand out within the crowd—she's been through all of it. She doesn't want to just keep chasing forever. She's going to welcome new goals, passions, and achievements. The sun has completely set by now; she sees the lights in the distance. Those are the rays of the new Siesta. So long, childhood dreams. It's time to head for the next stop.