The small group of people is wanderers. They have always been wanderers, always been on the move, never truly belonging anywhere.

There is a mystery, a mystery of their lives. It’s close, now, so close they can touch it, smell it, in the sands of Sahara, in the Valley of Kings, Egypt, along the ancient Silk Road through Asian cities, mountains and deserts.

There is a Valley of Kings, somewhere, beyond the rim of the world, hidden from mortal eyes, a place of freedom for those who are… special, persecuted in a world fearing the unknown, fearing and hating what is different. They are drawn to it, irresistibly, inevitably. Something about it, something there resonates deep within their being.

So, they set out to find that place, tracing centuries’ old tracks, ghosts of clues to its position, to its origin, and what it means to them, to them personally, as grains of sand keep slipping through their fingers.

And finally, the Valley of Kings welcomes them, taking them into its embrace, its womb, giving them hard needed solace, hard fought answers, reopening every single wound and pain of their soul.

There’s no mystery. The mystery remains.