The sun was a myth here, perpetually veiled by thick, dark clouds that hung heavy and unmoving. Beneath this oppressive sky, a young man, dressed in faded jeans and a black jacket, marched. He wasn't alone. In every direction, people stretched as far as the eye could see—a silent, endless procession of the old, the young, the beautiful, and the grotesque.

At first, the sheer strangeness of it all had amused him, the odd appearances, the silent commotions. But the amusement had long since faded, replaced by a deep, gnawing unease. No one spoke, not a single syllable. The only sounds were the rhythmic shuffle of countless feet and the alien, guttural shouts of the burly, horse-headed 'werehorses' who patrolled the perimeter, cracking whips that echoed ominously.

His mind, a frustrating blank slate, offered no answers. He squeezed every ounce of thought from his brain, yet nothing. No memories, no information, just the unsettling realization that he couldn't recall a single thing before this march. His forehead creased with the effort, his heart growing heavier with each step. He couldn't remember anything, not truly.

He had no one to ask, no one to share his mounting confusion with. Everyone was mute, literally. Yet, somehow, he knew the concept of speech, knew the sound of the passing birds, the scuff of footsteps, the crack of a whip. Why could he hear, but no one could speak?

His gaze drifted to the unchanging horizon, an endless stretch of desolate wasteland. Hours had passed, perhaps even five, yet no one seemed to tire, not even him. Just what was this march? And where, if anywhere, was it leading?