The land stretched endlessly beneath a sky tinted with the weary hue of old ash, where the sun hung like a faded bruise behind a veil of perpetual dust. Nothing moved here, not the air, not the cracked earth, not even time. Stones rose from the ground like the bones of something long dead. Their shadows lay quiet and sharp. Once, rivers might have carved paths through this wasteland, and trees might have reached toward the heavens. Now, only ghostly stumps remained, charred and splintered, half-swallowed by sand and silence.
Everywhere, the scent of rust and old sorrow lingered, carried by a wind that had long since forgotten how to whisper. Ruins dotted across the horizon, with crumbling towers and collapsed shelters standing as monuments to a people who had either vanished or were never meant to be remembered. Even the stars, those distant guides of the night sky, seemed to refuse to shine above this place, as if the heavens themselves turned away in quiet mourning.
This is a place untouched by hope, a land where nothing was born and nothing dared to die.
Through this choking haze, a figure crawled across the fractured earth, slow and ragged, almost inhuman. Its limbs dragged behind it like forgotten tools, every movement laced with exhaustion. From a distance, one might have mistaken it for a shadow detached from the ruins, desperate to reclaim something it had lost.
Up close, the figure seemed shaped from the ruins themselves. It wore a tattered cloak, once black, now faded to the color of ash, the edges frayed and stained with blood. The hood hung low over its face, casting long shadows across a cracked brow where strands of matted black hair clung like wet string. A sword rested across its back, the hilt wrapped in worn, unraveling cloth, dulled by time and dust. Beneath the grime, a pair of dark eyes stared out, hollow and dry. They caught no light, only the dim glow of the scorched sky above.
Dust clung to its back like a second skin, layering over the cloak until fabric and soil became indistinguishable. Its breath came in shallow, broken rasps, barely louder than the wind that drifted without purpose. The land offered no comfort, only the cruel kiss of sharp stone and silence. With each dragging movement, a thin cloud of grit rose and settled again, revealing no tracks, no path, no sign that anything had ever passed here. Just more of the same: a world emptied of meaning and memory.
Still, it moved.
"Not yet," a thought whispered inside its mind, scratching like a voice buried under sand.
"Not here. Not like this."
His blood-caked fingers clenched at his sides, trembling as he forced one foot in front of the other. Each step was a quiet battle, slow and unsteady, but he kept moving. The bones in its shoulder popped with the motion, but it did not stop.
There had to be something, anything, beyond the horizon.
The sky hung low above, a dull bruise over a world that had long since stopped caring. But in its heart, a tiny ember glowed, faint, flickering, and maddeningly stubborn.
"She is waiting."
Memory blurred with delusion, but it did not matter. Whether real or imagined, the thought gave shape to the void and offered a reason to keep moving across a land hell-bent on burying him and never letting him go. In that moment, every painful breath was a fragile promise, a link to something or someone that still held meaning in this desolate world.
He was sometimes a man, sometimes a ghost, and at times just a memory with a spine, wandering through a desolate land that seemed to have forgotten its own name. Sometimes, he found himself gazing into the cracked and rusted compass, his head bowed, fingers trembling, and eyes searching for something the world no longer offered.
The compass's needle twitched like a nervous heartbeat. It appeared to point nowhere, or perhaps everywhere, but it was hard to say. Despite its condition, he stared into it anyway, hopeful that it might recall a path worth taking. Sometimes, he imagined that buried within the rust and rattle lay a direction that mattered, something waiting beyond the dust and bones.
Yet the land remained silent.
He pushed himself forward, his legs feeling like they might give out at any moment, each step a battle against his own unsteady body. Pain throbbed in his back, a reminder of the burdens he had been carrying for what felt like forever. But he wasn't about to stop; that was simply not an option. Each breath became increasingly laborious, and his pace slowed to a crawl.
So, he crawls, dragging his broken body forward. Each breath scrapes through his throat like gravel, each movement a slow defiance against the weight pressing down on him.
Suddenly, his foot catches. Maybe on a buried stone, maybe on a tangle of roots, or maybe on nothing at all. It doesn't matter. His balance slips. Arms flail. The ground rushes up, fast and merciless.
"Thud"
He crashes down, cheek slamming into dry earth, the sting immediate and raw. Dust fills his mouth, grit grinding against his teeth.
The compass slips from his hand and tumbles across the ground. It lands beside him with a dull clink, its lid hanging open. The needle inside shivers and spins in slow, lazy circles, not pointing anywhere, just turning and turning, as if lost in thought.
There was no wind, no sun, only the sound of silence breathing over a broken frame.
Behind his closed eyes, the world stirs.
He opened his eyes.
The air was warm and sweet, carrying the scent of fresh bread and sun-dried linen. Somewhere nearby, laughter floated on the gentle breeze, soft and familiar, a melody filled with life.
He was small again.
Barefoot, he stood in a field of tall grass, the tips brushing against his knees as they swayed in the morning light. A playful breeze stirred the blades around him, tugging at the hem of his shirt.
"Zen! Where are you? Breakfast is ready! "
"Zen..."
His mother's voice called from somewhere behind him, gentle and sing-song, just as it always had been when she wasn't pretending to sound stern.
He turned toward the sound.
A little house lay at the edge of the field, modest and old, with weathered wood and a slanted roof. Its windows were open, welcoming the morning air, and white curtains fluttered lazily. A thin trail of smoke curled from the chimney, slow and steady, promising warmth and lazy mornings.
She stood in the doorway.
His mother wore a faded cotton dress adorned with small blue flowers. An apron draped at her waist, stained with flour and perhaps a dab of honey or soot. Her hands were dusted white. In one, she held a wooden paddle, still warm from the oven. Her black hair was pulled back in a loose knot, tied with the red ribbon she always wore when she sang. When she saw him, she smiled. Her tired eyes held no sorrow, only joy.
Another shape peeked from behind the doorframe.
His little sister. Younger than he remembered. Her hair was a messy tangle of curls. Her front teeth were missing, and a wide, gap-toothed grin spread across her face. A smear of jam stained her chin.
"Brother!" she squealed as she darted out barefoot.
He dropped to his knees just in time to catch her as she threw herself into his arms. Her weight landed against him, but he hardly noticed. He laughed and spun her around, their shadows whirling across the grass.
"Did you find its nest?" she asked, breathless, giggling.
"Not yet," he replied as he set her down, "but I think I know where it is."
"Where? Where is it? Is it nearby?" she asked, bouncing in place and grabbing his hand. "Let's gooo!"
"Hold your horses. I need to eat first," he said, ruffling her hair. "Your brother is starving."
"He, he, I made breakfast today," she said proudly. "Your favorite Scotch Pancakes. You're gonna love it. Mama said I'm going to be a great cook one day by tasting it."
He chuckled. "You already are. I can smell it from here."
She grinned and tugged at his hand as they walked together toward the house.
Then something else tugged at him.
"huh"
His mother, still in the doorway, had her eyes fixed on his. Suddenly, her mouth trembled, forming words that didn't reach him. He leaned in, straining to hear, but no sound came.
Only the wind.
Except there hadn't been wind before.
Now it was sharp, cold, and eerie. The warmth vanished like breath on glass. The red ribbon in her hair unraveled, twisting into the sky like blood in water. Her smile faltered. Then it stretched, too wide, revealing far too many teeth. Her eyes lost their warmth, growing hollow and distant, as if something else was staring out from behind them.
"Motherrr.." He screamed.
Suddenly, house began to rot.
The wooden boards blackened and curled inward. The walls collapsed in silence, like paper touched by flame. His sister's giggle echoed once, too high, too close. Then it shifted, became gurgles, and transformed into a shriek.
He spun around.
She was still there, yet she felt impossibly distant. Her limbs twisted at odd angles, and her mouth hung open, but the sounds that escaped were not her own. They were haunting echoes, like a chorus touched by sorrow and a deep, gnawing hunger, ancient sounds that seemed etched into the very fabric of the earth.
Above him, the sky shattered, but there was no light, only a darkness so thick and profound that it seemed to hum with a pulse of its own, alive and all-seeing. Something immense stirred in that abyss.
"What's happening? Mother? Sister?" His voice wavered, small and fragile against the engulfing shadows. The fear clawing at his chest was sharp and cold, far beyond mere fear, consuming him entirely.
He longed to rush to them, to reach out and hold them, to find solace in their warmth. Yet he remained rooted, his body trembling as if weighed down by an unseen force. Instinct screamed at him to flee; panic surged through his veins, but his legs betrayed him, refusing to budge.
The grass that had once cushioned his feet vanished, replaced by something soft and slick, like raw flesh, warm and breathing beneath him. It writhed, whispering his name in voices disturbingly similar to his own.
Then came the hands.
Small. Delicate.
They coiled around his ankles, his sister's, his mother's. More came, countless and insistent.
And they began to pull. They smiled.
"Arghh...."
He screamed, but the sound never escaped. It stayed locked inside him, swelling, choking, drowning him in silence.
"Nooo!"
He jolts awake with a gasp, his body thrashing as if escaping the invisible chains of a nightmare. His breath tears in and out, jagged and desperate, each inhale cutting through his lungs like shards of glass.
"Huff… huff…"
Sitting up swiftly, he feels his heart racing in his chest, a wild drumbeat echoing through the stillness of his surroundings. Sweat slicks his brow, mingling with the dust that clings to his skin. He squints into the barren expanse before him, eyes wide and unseeing.
"Another nightmare, huh?" he mutters to himself, though the silence offers no reply.
He remains in that moment, focused solely on the rhythm of his ragged breathing. Beside him lies a compass, its needle twitching nervously in the dirt.
Eventually, he pushes himself upright. His knees protest painfully, sending sharp reminders of his fragility coursing through him. But he forces himself to walk.
And then again.
He has no idea how long he's been wandering, nor how far he's come.
But he walks. He won't stop. Not until he finds what he's searching for.