May your knife chip and shatter
He's on the right rock, anyway. He's pretty sure of that. It's a sense, a feeling that he gets, that he's closer now than he has been in a long time. It figures, that to end this he would have to go back to where it began.
But it won't end here. He steps out of the shack--barely a shack, with much of its corrugated metal rusted to nothing and beams and parts of the roof fallen in or eaten away by wind and dust. No one's lived in it for years. Everything useful was scavenged long before now. There's barely any sign of what it was once used for; a broken bottle, some spent ammo cartridges, a metal access plate from a shuttle.
It's enough. He knows. And even if there were nothing he'd smell it.
So he steps out of the shack and stares up at the high sun and the icy ball that is Oublié, hanging massive and faintly ominous above the horizon. Seems strange, all that cold so close when it's so blastingly hot here. He wipes sweat off his brow and looks out across the dusty expanse, dotted here and there with lonely pillars and mounds of red rock. Florence is a bright winking thing, distant and pristine. He would have parked closer, but he didn't want to risk it. For a lot of reasons.
He shakes himself and starts to walk. There's a lot of Nanashi still to search. One of these days. It's just a matter of time now.