Dark clouds veiled the night sky, draping the world in a suffocating shroud of darkness. The rain fell without mercy, the temperature plunging as a biting chill spread across the horizon.
A young boy stood motionless in the storm, his frail body trembling beneath the weight of the downpour, soaked to the bone. He devoured the chilling air in ragged breaths, his sunken cheeks rising and falling in a fragile, uneven rhythm.
His amethyst eyes stared at a crude pile of rocks — a pitiful imitation of a grave. Mud and blood clung to his pale fingers as he traced the edges of the mound, the cold rain washing over his hands.
"Should've used a shovel," he thought numbly, his fingers stiff from the cold.
At last, his knees gave way and sank into the wet earth. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath as the truth settled in. The rain's patter softened, fading into the background until all he could hear was his own fragile, uneven breathing.
"Ah… she really is dead."
The words slipped from his lips, barely audible, trembling as if the air itself resisted them.
The burial was pathetic — shallow, uneven, and desperate. He had dug as deep as his shaking hands would allow, hidden in the farthest corner of the slums. He had seen people eating corpses here and refused to let his sister's body be the next.
A strange quiet settled over him. Dusk felt free in a way that frightened him. Whether he lived or died no longer mattered; there was no one left to care, and no one left for him to care for. Yet, even in that emptiness, he felt the ache of being utterly alone.
Warmth welled at the corners of his eyes.
"T-Tears?" he whispered, startled — and then the rain washed them away.
A broken laugh escaped him, dry and hollow. He pushed himself to his feet, his decision already made. Either he would die like his sister, or he would awaken — even if it killed him.
He chose the latter.
Dusk took one last look at the grave, then turned away. The rain fell harder, washing the dirt — and his hesitation — from his skin.