BACK ON LAND
The journey back home should have taken a day.
Instead, it took him almost two.
Not because the road was long. Not because the mountain was steep. Not because he was injured—though one eye had been clawed out and both legs trembled with every step.
No.
He was slow because he was traumatized.
He had run from that cursed village with the spirit of a dying mosquito, collapsing every few hours from fear alone, waking up screaming, scrambling to run again, smelling imaginary panthers breathing down his neck.
Now, two days later, when he finally emerged from the forest, staggering toward his homeland, the sun was already climbing the sky. The village was bright, awake, loud.
And then it went silent.
Mothers froze mid-wash.
Children stopped playing.
Hunters halted sharpening their spears.
Everyone stared.
Because he looked like he had crawled out of the underworld.
Half-blind.
Skin torn.
Blood dried across his chest.
Clothes ripped, smeared with dirt.
