"Grandma, what are those?" the boy asked, his voice trembling with childish curiosity, his wide eyes fixed on the elderly woman sitting at the base of a granite boulder.
They were on the edge of an old meadow, where wilted autumn grass rustled under gusts of wind. In the distance, beyond the fields, a forest loomed, its foliage shimmering in shades of crimson and amber decay. Above them stretched an endless sky, gradually darkening as the sun sank below the horizon, painting the edge of the world in purple hues.
Grandma followed her grandson's gesture—his small hand reached upward, his index finger pointing to where the first stars were igniting against the evening blue.
"My dear, have you never seen the stars?" Her voice carried a warm, teasing lilt.
"There… there are so many!" the boy said, gazing at the sky in awe. "What are they? Why are they so tiny?"
"Each star is a reflection of a human soul," Grandma said with a smile, the wrinkles around her eyes dancing with flecks of sunlight. "When a soul leaves this world, its star fades. And with the birth of a new person, a new star sparks to life in the sky."
"Really? That's magic!" the boy exclaimed, pressing closer to his grandmother's shoulder. "But why are they so small?"
"Because they're an eternity away," she replied, wrapping her arm around him. "The distance to the stars is measured in years it takes for their light to reach us."
"I'm definitely going to get there!" the boy declared firmly, staring into the starry abyss.
"Of course you will," Grandma said tenderly, running her hand through his hair. "After all, somewhere among those lights is yours. Now come along, my sunshine, it's time for dinner—my stomach's already growling with hunger."
---
Consciousness returned abruptly, like the crack of a whip. The sweet memories scattered like smoke from a campfire, and Finn's eyes were met once again by the cold gleam of railway tracks under the faint glow of streetlights.
He stood on the edge of the city, where the asphalt road gave way to a rutted dirt path. All around stretched harvested fields, their withered stubble whispering in the icy wind. The air carried the sharp scent of rotting leaves and the bitter tang of smoke—autumn asserting its dominion over the world.
Finn watched as the last ray of sunlight vanished behind the jagged line of the forest, staining the horizon the color of congealed blood. The wind tugged at his hood, making him shiver from the piercing cold.
From the distance came a long, drawn-out whistle—a train was approaching.
*One step…* the thought flashed through his mind. *One step, and this pain will be gone. One step, and all my problems will be left behind…*
He studied his hands—pale, almost porcelain from the cold, with faint blue veins visible beneath the thin skin. His fingers trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the icy fingers of the wind creeping through the thick fabric of his black hoodie. The jacket hung loosely on him, like a sack, the hood drooping so low it nearly hid his face.
The train drew closer—the blinding light of its headlights sliced through the darkness, its whistles growing louder, like a final warning.
The roar of the wheels drowned out everything—even his own breathing. Finn felt the vibration from the tracks rising through his legs, merging with the trembling within him.
*Let it be quick…*
He squeezed his eyes shut. A searing gust hit his face, and his ears exploded with the roar of rushing steel. Finn instinctively flinched back, but…
The sound cut off abruptly, as if someone had switched off reality. Opening his eyes, he felt cold sweat trickling down his temples.
At first, all he saw was a blurry smudge. Then his vision cleared.
On the ballast lay a severed arm—waxy, its fingers frozen in a final spasm. Dried blood had formed a black crust on the gravel. But something about it felt eerily familiar…
Taking a step forward, he trod on something brittle—shards of teeth crunched under his sole.
And then he saw the face.
It lay to the side, dusted with gravel. His own face. One eye was closed, the other—cloudy, glassy—stared directly at him. The skin had taken on an ashen hue, but the features were unmistakably his, chillingly recognizable.
The corpse's lips twitched.
"Are you… still… afraid… of death…?" they whispered in his own voice, but with a bone-chilling echo, as if the sound came from the depths of the underworld.
Finn stumbled back, colliding with something soft. Turning, he saw remains—a crushed ribcage, spilling entrails, all tangled in shreds of familiar black fabric.
His legs gave way, and he collapsed to the ground. His hand, seeking support, sank into something warm and sticky—his own mangled leg. The femur jutted out from the bloody mess like a ship's mast, the kneecap shattered into three sharp fragments, held together by tendons.
He tried to scream, but his lungs refused to draw air. *What's happening?* raced through his mind as, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the darkness thickening.
The shadows began to behave unnaturally:
The outlines of trees on the horizon melted downward, like molten tar. Streetlights bent and dissolved, like candles. Even the pools of blood on the tracks began to evaporate, turning into black smoke.
The last to vanish was his dead face—the glassy eye clouded over, then sank inward, as if sucked away by an invisible force.
A blinding flash. When his vision returned, he saw:
A massive desk of dark wood, covered in a web of cracks. On it lay an enormous book bound in human skin—the veins on the cover pulsed. The pages rustled on their own, inscribed with writings that constantly shifted and reformed.
In a chair sat a figure. Its contours flickered like black flame. Long fingers tipped with claws turned the pages. When the creature raised its head, Finn saw:
A smooth, featureless surface where a face should have been. Where eyes should have been were voids, shimmering with distant galaxies. A mouth appeared only when it spoke—a black slit from which icy vapor poured.
"Well, hello, Finnlaine Reinbach," came a voice that mingled the crunch of breaking bones with carefree childish laughter. A clawed hand pointed to the final page: "So, what do you think of your story's ending?"
On the parchment, Finn saw an exact depiction of himself standing on the tracks. The text beneath the drawing slowly formed from dripping ink, coalescing into the final lines…