She left a trail of debris as she stumbled through the desert. She felt romantic about it, leaving small pieces of herself: a path to finding her. Stray hairs, torn skin from cracked lips, the thick cover of blisters, sweat, blood from tired feet, a chip of a tooth from chewing on a rock, scraps of clothing she shed. She was crumbling to pieces, but left a story as she moved.
A traveller would come along, pick up a scrap of silk, fleeting hairs, blood-soaked sand. But he would never catch up to her. He would piece together an ideal vision of the woman who splintered her way through the desert. It would never be complete, for the piece that mattered most and held her debris together was lost long ago before her feet even touched the sand.