The Repeating Mirage(Jonas Wennmark) Thomas had always been a solitary soul, finding solace in the quiet of the woods. It was an autumn evening, and the dense forest glowed faintly under the light of a sinking sun. He walked a trail he had taken countless times before, the crunch of leaves underfoot his only company.

But tonight felt different. The forest was too still. No chirping birds, no rustling branches—just an oppressive silence that wrapped around him like a shroud.

After an hour or so, Thomas began to feel lightheaded. His vision blurred, and a sharp ringing filled his ears. He stumbled to the side of the trail, gripping a tree for support. And then, as if someone had flipped a switch, everything went black.

When Thomas woke, he was no longer in the woods. He was lying on scorching sand, his face burning under a blazing sun. Dazed and disoriented, he rose to his feet, the coarse sand slipping through his fingers as he steadied himself. The vast expanse of the desert stretched endlessly in every direction, the horizon shimmering with cruel mirages.

“What… where am I?” he muttered, his voice cracking.

Thomas tried to piece together how he’d gone from the cool, shadowed forest to this infernal wasteland, but his mind offered no answers. The woods were gone, and so was his sense of direction. All he knew was that he couldn’t stay in one spot—he had to find help.

He began to walk.

Hours passed—or was it minutes? The sun never seemed to move, and the heat was relentless. His throat was parched, his skin slick with sweat. But far in the distance, he saw something: a cluster of shapes that resembled a small village.

Hope surged through him. He picked up his pace, the soft crunch of sand beneath his boots the only sound breaking the suffocating silence.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally reached the edge of the village. But something was wrong. The houses were misshapen, their walls cracked and leaning at odd angles. The windows were black voids, as if the buildings themselves were blind.

“Hello?” he called out, his voice barely more than a croak.

No response.

He stepped closer to the nearest house and reached for the door, but just as his fingers brushed the handle, his vision swam. A dizzying vertigo overtook him, and he collapsed to his knees.

When Thomas opened his eyes, he was back in the desert. The village was gone.

He stared at the endless dunes, panic bubbling up in his chest. “No,” he whispered. “I was just there!”

He rose to his feet and started walking again, forcing himself to count his steps to keep the panic at bay.

“One, two, three…”

He trudged forward, his boots sinking into the hot sand with every step. His mind swirled with fragments of memories—trees, shadows, the cool air of the forest—but none of it made sense.

“One thousand nine hundred ninety-eight, one thousand nine hundred ninety-nine…”

He froze.

Ahead of him was the same cluster of misshapen houses.

This time, he didn’t bother calling out. He approached cautiously, his heart pounding. The village looked exactly as it had before, down to the crooked door handle of the nearest house.

But something new caught his attention: footprints. His own. They circled the village, leading away into the dunes before disappearing over a distant rise.

With a sinking feeling, Thomas realized he’d been here before.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “This isn’t real.”

He turned away from the village and began walking in a new direction. This time, he didn’t count his steps. He just walked, driven by sheer will and desperation.

The desert stretched on and on, the horizon always just out of reach. The sun never moved, never dipped toward evening.

And then, after what felt like an eternity, he saw it again: the same village.

Thomas collapsed to the ground, clutching his head. “Why is this happening?” he screamed. His voice echoed across the dunes, swallowed by the empty vastness.

It was then that he noticed something strange. A shadow moved within the doorway of the nearest house.

Squinting, Thomas rose unsteadily to his feet. “Who’s there?” he called.

The shadow didn’t respond. It just stood there, watching him.

Fueled by a mix of fear and anger, Thomas marched toward the house. “What do you want from me?” he shouted. “Why can’t I leave?”

As he reached the doorway, the shadow stepped forward, revealing itself.

It was Thomas.

Not a reflection, not a hallucination—another Thomas, identical in every way, staring back at him with hollow, empty eyes.

“You can’t leave,” the doppelgänger said in a flat, emotionless voice. “You’re part of this now.”

“What are you talking about?” Thomas demanded.

The doppelgänger tilted its head. “Every step you take brings you closer to the truth. And every two thousand steps…” It gestured to the desert around them. “…you return to where you belong.”

Before Thomas could respond, his vision swam again. The world tilted, and he fell to the ground.

When he woke, he was back in the woods, lying on a bed of leaves.

The forest was quiet, the air cool and damp. For a moment, he thought it had all been a terrible dream.

But as he stood up, he noticed the sand clinging to his boots.

And in the distance, just beyond the trees, he saw the outline of a misshapen house.

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