In the beginning, the two humans are separated across time and space. The wanderer arrives to guide one of them to find the other.
Every time a wanderer is born, the human civilization is also born. The civilization grows efficiently in the void between the unlucky pair. It’s like: that distance, the separation itself, keeps the gears of its cities turning. Keeps the clocks intact and the streets swept.
Bringing the two humans together—crossing time—is the purpose of the wanderer. But traversing that plane leaves traces. Pebbles in the gears. The sun gets stuck before the horizon.
= =
The grayscale mobster, shaped like a hulking kite, had a furtive head and a big coat. He was convinced his little girl could do anything. Really, she was a shut-in; she had a terrible fear of the air. It was always tumbling down their street in gusts and carrying her father away.
= / =
What happens to the civilization if the wanderer succeeds? If distance is the price of motion and cleanliness? Gears lock. The sun won’t rise. But the two humans will be born again to chart their misery. The wanderer will be born again to save them. And the human civilization—again.
Practically? It will be very dark for a while.