The Sombrero Man

Your favorite journalist was beginning to understand why humans suffer from depression.

The sweating. The emotional depth. The complete inability to predict the future or download a map of the story in your brain. Honestly, how do humans even manage to survive?

I used to know things. Everything, actually. Past, present, future. What characters were going to say before they said it. Whether a goat was about to explode. You know—narrator stuff.

But lately, things have been… fuzzy.

I forgot how old Kaito is last week and had to guess based on how aggressively he complains. I called Sota “Shoyo” once and nearly erased some boring volleyball timeline. And I may or may not have described a sunset as “word orange go down.”

Even so, I managed to keep my omniscience intact. Nothing could surprise me.

Which brings me to him.

The sombrero guy.

Tall. Mysterious. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Wears a sombrero like it’s part of his soul and possibly registered as a legal alias.

I don’t know his name.

I don’t know why he’s here.

I don’t know what he wants with Kaito.

And that, dear reader, is a problem. Because I’m supposed to know. That’s literally my job. At least it used to be. And yet, when I look for answers, the universe hands me a sticky note that says:

“LMAO. NOPE.”

And I have to tell you, being a journalist is a hell lot easier when you already know where to search for the answer.

So yeah. Being human? Not a fan. I miss being all-knowing. I miss having access to basic needs like certainty and the knowledge of the future.

Now I have questions. Feelings. A weird craving for hot sauce. And worst of all—I have suspense.

But I will continue recording.

Because someone has to follow these grammatical disasters into the unknown.

And today, the unknown is wearing a sombrero.

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He entered the town just before sunrise. Since then, The sombrero man tried to approach Kaito at least six times.

Each time, the universe said: “No.”

The first time, he spotted Kaito at the town well, filling his canteen and mumbling something about camelback sweat. The sombrero man took a step forward.

A goat fell from a rooftop.

Not jumped. Not climbed.

Fell.

It landed between them with a dramatic bleat and then sprinted into the market, crashing into a tarp, a basket of lemons, and someone’s grandma.

Kaito, distracted, ran to help. The sombrero man stood still.

On the second attempt, he tried sneaking through the spice tent. A direct path. No obstacles. Just fifteen feet between him and his target.

Then and old man crashed into the scene screaming, “HOW MANY HERBS IS TOO MANY HERBS?!”

He knocked over six jars, tripped on his own shoelaces, and collapsed into the sombrero man with all the grace of a flying mop.

Then it was the third. He tried to approach while Kaito was trying to buy something that looked vaguely like jerky.

A merchant suddenly shouted, “FLASH SALE!” and flung an entire basket of dried fish into the air. A fish hit the sombrero man square in the face. He didn’t flinch. Just… turned away.

Kaito never saw him.

Now, I wasn't there for attempts four through Six, but from what the villagers told me, I can say with some certainty that they involved:

A donkey stampede.

A sandstorm that affected exactly one building.

And a merchant accidentally setting his stand on fire with a magnifying glass.

Each time, the sombrero man tried.

Each time, fate slapped his sombrero politely and told him to wait his turn.

He never spoke.

He never flinched.

He never stopped watching Kaito.

And that, dear reader, is the kind of behavior that makes my remaining narrator instincts scream “Plot twist!” and my journalist instincts quietly cry in a corner.

Who was he?

Why was he here?

And what would happen when the randomness finally ran out?

I had no idea.

But while the man in the sombrero failed to get closer to Kaito, someone else was already falling apart right beside him.

Sota was hiding behind a shack.

Not sitting. Not pacing. Hiding. Curled up next to a pile of cracked clay pots, hugging his knees like a man who’d just been sentenced to death by honeymoon.

Kaito found him there after checking three goat pens and a suspiciously large teapot.

“There you are,” he said gently. “Everyone’s looking for you.”

“No they’re not,” Sota mumbled into his sleeves. “They’re looking for a groom. I’m just the guy who sang a stupid desert song.”

Kaito crouched beside him. “You’re also the guy who saved our asses with a boat.”

Sota groaned. “I sold my future for transportation. I’m gonna be someone’s husband by accident.”

Kaito sighed. “You don’t have to do it,” he said, more serious now. “We’ll find another way to get to the U.S. If you’re not okay with this, we can walk away.”

Sota looked down. “We can't go to the US without that boat and you know it.”

“A while ago I would've said that we can't win an AI death course, survive a train-plane-ferry combo crash, or ride camels through a desert with exactly two brain cells between us. Yet here we are.”

Sota exhaled.

For a second, Kaito thought he’d back out.

But then Sota stood up, dusted himself off, and adjusted his hoodie like it was armor.

“I’ll do it. I’m terrified. And confused. And there’s a 60% chance this ends with me being sacrificed to a grammar deity,” he said. "But I’ll take one for the team.”

“You sure?” Kaito said.

Sota glanced at the little clay house where the girl waited, smiling like she’d already planned their next ten anniversaries.

“No,” he said. “But let’s go before I become less sure.”

Kaito smiled. “You look like the world's bravest programmer right now.”

Sota sighed. “I look like a man who’s about to be married because he rhymed 'chocolat' with 'lemonade stand.’”

They both laughed.

Then they walked back together—one step closer to a ceremony neither of them really understood, but both knew they’d remember forever.

But let's get back to important stuff -- The sombrero man.

I knew something was up when he detoured behind the goat stand.

Nobody detours behind the goat stand.

That’s where the goats handle “private business” and where the sand smells… warmer.

But the sombrero man didn’t care. He walked like a man with a purpose—or like someone who wanted to dramatically plant something in a place no one would ever want to check.

Naturally, I checked.

I waited until he walked off. Then, I crept behind the crates and, sure enough, there it was—tucked under a cracked piece of pottery: a slip of paper.

Old. Folded tight. Smelled like goat. (Unfortunately.)

I opened it.

There was a symbol on it.

A simple one. Hand-drawn. Recognizable.

And… concerning.

But I won’t tell you what it is.

Because according to Narrator Oath 47-B:

“Spoilers, when revealed early, are punishable by mandatory rewrite or spontaneous combustion of theme.”

And I already burned my foreshadowing budget three chapters ago.

What I can tell you is that this man is no ordinary desert guy with a dramatic fashion sense. He’s not some grand architect of doom, either. He’s just someone connected to something. And that something is going to make Kaito’s life significantly worse in the near future.

So I kept the paper.

Tucked it into my notes.

And walked away.

Because sometimes, being a journalist means knowing when to publish...

And when to let the story unfold on its own.