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They presented him with long flowing robes of blue and left him alone to cover his nakedness in the dim tent. He stood tall and straight, but his body felt unaccustomed to that so he slumped and folded his arms against his chest. He eased into the position and it felt more natural to him, although nothing truly felt familiar, not even his own bare body. He felt discomfort, but couldn’t remember enough to name the sensation or its cause.

His eyes fixated on the garments in front of him, yet his thoughts ran elsewhere. He sensed that he didn’t belong here, that sense heightened by the fact that none of these people recognized him. He didn’t belong to this planet, these people, this tent, those clothes. The man unfolded his arms; slightly surprised at the awkwardness he felt in manipulating a body he assumed he always dwelled within. Surely at least that should be comfortable, familiar. He leaned down and touched the clothe with two fingers, trailing them in a line along the fold in the fabric. It felt soft, the fibers close together to seem almost smooth. He was meant to wear this close to his body, with the other robes over it, he understood. He realized that the discomfort he felt was the cold. He shivered. He observed the hair on his arm risen up in a biological response to conserve heat. He decided he disliked the cold; quickly he sought out the warmth that clothes provided. He pulled one layer over his head after another, thrusting his arms through the sleeves in a nearly frantic manner. Dressed, he still felt naked, but at least he was warm.

The incense and exotically scented candles that made dancing shadows on the tent’s canvas weren’t scents that the man couldn’t name. The man knew, almost instinctively but without knowing how, that these smells were not smells of home. He moved in a slow circle, watching how the many layers of the robes bloomed outwards. The cold air snaked up his legs, chilling his warming body. The man stopped. The air was wrong. It was cold, damp. Memory of a sensation, the feeling of something warm and gritty under the soles of his feet, filled him with a longing and a great sorrow he couldn’t understand. A burning ripped through his chest, leaving him grasping for air and choking on the sharp foreign air that did fill his lungs with each raged inhale.

“Arrom?” The man’s name giver questioned form beyond the closed off realm of the tent.

“I am well,” He, Arrom, lied. Arrom touched his cheek and brought his hand down to examine the wetness. He rubbed the liquid between his fingers until it was gone. He touched his cheek again, this time bringing his finger to his lips and tasting. Salt, oceans, the taste of the air on the beach; it was an unexpected artifact unburied in his mind to ponder. As he examined the thought, he could find no memory in it, only knowledge. Knowledge that there were places where vast volumes of water would hurl itself upon earth, causing small droplets to flavor the windy air. He knew that gravitational pulls of a moon would cause the vast volumes of water, an ocean, come and go in tides. The man didn’t remember a specific ocean, nor could he picture himself on one. Only the taste of tears in the air, he did remember. He shook his head and left the dimness of the tent with its flickering candles for the light of day and company.

*****

Arrom stretched slowly, feeling his muscles and limbs extend outward. Faint light of a winter sun did little to burn the chill of the night. Arrom groaned at the constant cold and huddled his body back beneath the many thick blankets, woven in faint earthy-colored designs. He took a moment to gather his courage, before tossing the blankets aside in one swift motion and standing up. He tried to ignore his normal morning longing for a taste of something bitter in his mouth and carefully replaced the blankets. In the two weeks that Arrom had lived amongst the village, the people displayed their hospitality. They provided him with clothes, a tent, belongings, and compassion. In the back corner of the tent, where he awoke each morning, was his personal living space. There he slept, ate, and thought. Forward, towards the entrance, lay the many candles and incense that these people treasured so much. He accepted company in this space. Along the very entrance, Arrom’s supplies were stored in clay pots and handmade baskets. All this, Arrom gained through the generosity of those that found him. They accepted him into their lives, without question and he slowly grew to care for them. Still a sense of great loss would seize him in sudden fits, causing him to abandon the company of others. They grew accustomed to Arrom’s bouts of solitude as well.

Arrom put on his outermost robe and stepped out into the new day. Already many were awake, busying themselves with their morning chores. They never asked anything of Arrom, yet now Arrom became ashamed of what little he did with his days. He spent them lost and confused while the village worked to keep him in the comforts he enjoyed. Time had come for Arrom to provide some service to the community that accepted him so easily.

He didn’t know where his own talents lay. He had, countless times, examined his body for clues about himself. The whole of his skin was tinted with a light golden tan, which suggested to Arrom that he spent time in a climate warmer than this where he was unconcerned with his own nudity. Arrom certainly did not feel that way now, yet he was found naked. The skin at his palms was rough and thick, speaking of hard work. Farmers lived and worked on the outskirts of the village, but following them one day, Arrom found the chores they performed unfamiliar. The plants that he ate, he did not recognize and they tasted unfamiliar to him as well. Did he forget that knowledge as well as his memory, or did he do something else? Arrom had a scar on his abdomen; did his past life know much violence? He did not feel like a warrior, didn’t enjoy that thought and felt no place for such a man in such a peaceful land.

Arrom wasn’t sure if he would like the man he once was. That man seemed to leave behind only the legacy of loss and the sense that he did wrong. Arrom longed for things he could not remember.

Sitting there, that morning, Arrom decided to find work. Even if this time and place was one of limbo for him, he should find an activity to fill his days. If he awoke one morning, once again the man of wrongness and loss, at least these people would have the memory of Arrom’s good deeds to remember then. For just as the death of the man he was birthed Arrom, so would the return of his memory kill the man he was now. And Arrom feared.

Pain vibrated in the air in the form of sound. Arrom’s ponderings ceased. He found himself two tents over before he registered his own movements.