The Greatest Showman – Chapter 1220

The intense heat wave hung thick in the air, and vast stretches of blue skies dissolved into the yellow sand, with steam rising in waves. The air was so thick it seemed to blur and distort everything in sight, creating a strange, colorful haze that swallowed the world. All the scenery morphed into large patches of color, with any sharp outlines completely vanishing.

It was almost unbelievable to think that it was still February.

If you were standing in the heart of New York right now, thick down jackets and sturdy hats and gloves would fail to shield you from the omnipresent cold. A brief five-minute stay at a busy intersection would leave you cold and shivering from the biting wind. But here, standing in this unfamiliar place, the heat of midsummer clung to the skin, almost as if it were burning it away.

The question is: Where am I?

Paul Walker stood at an intersection, gazing at the unfamiliar surroundings, his mind spinning with questions: Who am I? Where am I? What am I doing here?

To his left, an old-fashioned, self-service gas station stood empty, devoid of people. Nearby, a row of dilapidated small bungalows resembled something from an old Western film, abandoned and crumbling. In front of one of the doors sat an elderly Mexican man, dressed in vibrant traditional Mexican garb. His eyes were shut tight, unmoving, as he sat motionless in the searing sun.

On the right, a sandy beach stretched along the azure coastline, where twisted tree roots and decaying seaweed littered the shore. Farther down, an old pier stood with a few broken ships tied up, their condition indicating they hadn't been used in years. Beyond that, more dilapidated houses lined the street, all devoid of life.

It was quiet, lazy, barren, and desolate—there didn't seem to be a trace of vitality.

Paul couldn't help but wonder if he was going the wrong way.

He thought about it seriously: How did he get here? Was the address he had written down wrong? Did someone give him the wrong directions? Or was it a faulty navigation system that led him astray, turning him in the wrong direction from the start, compounding the mistakes?

Just as Paul was about to check his GPS again, a jingling bell caught his attention.

He turned toward the sound, only to find a young girl, about sixteen or seventeen, walking across the intersection. She was wearing a colorful Mexican shawl that spread out like wings. In her hand, she led a mule, which carried three large burlap sacks that looked heavy but were carried with ease.

The scene was surreal, leaving Paul momentarily speechless. He stood, staring at the girl and the mule, unsure of how to process what he was seeing.

Jingle, jingle.

The bell tied to the mule's neck chimed softly as it moved, crossing the intersection and heading to the right. Paul noticed that the girl was barefoot, walking across the hot sand without seeming bothered by the heat. She moved at her own pace, unconcerned by the world around her.

She seemed lost in her own thoughts, her gaze distant and unfocused, unaware of Paul or his car, or if she did notice, she didn't care at all.

Realizing he was being ignored, Paul quickly opened his car door and called out, "Hey! Excuse me! Can you tell me where I am?"

The girl glanced up, confusion crossing her face. She didn't respond, and neither did the mule, which continued its slow, steady steps, the bell's sound fading into the distance.

Paul waited for an answer but got nothing. He thought for a moment before trying again. "Do you know where 'Antonio's Tango' is?" he asked. "It's a bar, owned by an Argentine, right in the center of town..." He hesitated for a moment, unsure if that would help.

The girl finally spoke, "Cuba."

"Cuba?" Paul asked, caught off guard by her response.

"The bar is owned by a Cuban," the girl explained. "It's not far from here. If you go down this road, you'll pass a grocery store on the right. There's a fork in the road right after that. Take it, and you'll find a small square. The bar is in the square."

Paul nodded slowly, trying to follow along, and gestured with his hands, mimicking her directions.

Without waiting for any confirmation from Paul, the girl turned, urging the mule to continue on its way. She moved with a calm determination, completely unaffected by the brief interaction. Her back, as she walked away, carried an air of mystery, as though she were a part of a world completely foreign to Paul.

Paul stood there for a moment, uncertain. "...Thank you?" he said, more as a formality than anything, but the girl didn't acknowledge him. She just continued on her way, as though their exchange had never happened.

Paul was left standing there, full of questions. What had just happened? But then again, ever since leaving Miami, everything had been one long question after another. Each doubt had led to more confusion, until now, he was completely lost in a fog of uncertainty.

The only thing he could think about was how Renly had managed to find this place.

Since completing The Drunken Town Folk Ballad, Renly had vanished. No contact, no communication, nothing. His phone was turned off, his social media completely silent—he had disappeared without a trace.

Paul had kept calling every day, leaving voice messages, but got no response. It wasn't until three days ago that Paul finally heard Renly's familiar voice again.

"Ha, I'm surfing right now," Renly had said, "Come along if you have time. The waves in the Caribbean are amazing."

Without hesitation, Paul booked a ticket to Miami, rented a car, and set off following the navigation system. Two days of winding through deserted and desolate roads had left him feeling like he had entered another world.

Florida, often associated with sun, beaches, and luxury, had shown Paul another side: the decaying, abandoned world beneath the surface. The streets were filled with rundown houses, impoverished residents, and a stark contrast to the wealth and glamor that usually defined the state. It felt like an entire world was being consumed by decay and neglect.

Paul couldn't fathom why Renly would choose to stay in such a place, what had drawn him here, and why he had disappeared from everything else.

But just as he thought he might be completely lost again, he saw him.

Renly stood there, wearing a white linen shirt, sky-blue jeans, and dirty canvas shoes. His beard was thick and unkempt, and his curly hair had grown wild. His face was mostly obscured, save for his bright, familiar eyes.

Surrounding him was a group of children, no more than five or six years old, laughing and playing. They all had small foam boards, jumping and pretending to surf. Renly was right there with them, shouting and making exaggerated, playful comments.

"The waves are coming! Look out for the sharks! Haha, Miguel, you're gonna get eaten by a shark!" he yelled, pretending to be a shark as he ran among the children. Their laughter was contagious, echoing through the square, and for a brief moment, the town came alive.

Paul couldn't help but smile. The sight of Renly, carefree and surrounded by laughter, seemed to fit perfectly with the surreal world around them.