Windprint I – Gallop through the veil
“The tart smell of horse sweat. The creak of saddle leather. The tug of reins between calloused fingers. All of it called him back—to the steppe, to home, to infinity.
To freedom. The real freedom. The kind carved into the wind, where a stallion’s gallop devoured the horizon, and the line between muscle and earth, rider and breath, no longer held. He became the speed. The pulse. The wind. He dissolved. Body blurred. Mind vanished.
There was no self, no story—only impulse and meaning. And the horses were the key.
The bridge. The soul’s original shape.
So when he woke again—after the long sleep between lives—he found himself in a world of steel wings and screaming skies, of machines instead of beasts.
And still, before language returned, before thought remembered how to shape itself—his longing surged.
He needed to ride. Again. To return to the only truth his soul remembered.
But no one rode anymore. Not like before. No one loved the horse more than their children. No one spoke to them as to gods, as to brothers, as to the last loyal friend on the battlefield.
Yet his bones remembered. His blood remembered.
His little body, too small now for armor or command, vibrated with one plea.
He turned to his mother. This new mother. The one with eyes too full of her own weather.
“Take me to the stables,” he said.
She smiled, nodding vaguely—her mind already drifting elsewhere. The request slipped from her like mist.
But he remembered. And returned. “Take me to the stables,” he asked again. And again. He was asking the same question every single day.
Not with tantrum. But with the insistence of something ancient. Something older than language. Something older than this life.
And a year later, she took his small hand—and at last, they went to the stables.”
This is a flashback from the General’s past lifetime. The General is the 2nd main character of my authobiographical novel.
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