The darkness was not empty.
At first, it pressed against him like a weight, heavy and suffocating, as though the night itself had swallowed him whole. He could not tell if his eyes were open or closed, only that there was no light, no breath, no heartbeat. Time stretched—or ceased altogether.
A strange calm crept over him. The pain in his chest was gone, his body no longer trembling. He thought he could hear faint echoes—his mother's sobs, his father's broken voice, his siblings' cries. They were far away now, distant, as though muffled by walls of stone. Each sound pulled at him, begged him back, but he could not move.
Is this it? Am I gone?
The thought passed, slow and uncertain, as if even his mind struggled to stay awake. He tried to cling to it, but the darkness pulled harder, unraveling him strand by strand.
And then… a shiver.
The ground beneath him felt rough. Cold. He was lying not on the floor of his home, but on something jagged, hard, unwelcoming. Slowly, painfully, he opened his eyes.
The sight that greeted him stole the breath he no longer had.
Above stretched a sky the color of ash, shifting clouds smeared across it like charcoal on faded parchment. No sun. No moon. No stars. Only a vast, oppressive grey. Around him stretched a barren plain—endless, desolate, marked only by twisted trees that clawed at the heavens with skeletal branches. The soil was black, cracked and lifeless, the air thick with silence.
He sat up with effort, his chest sore though there was no wound, no blood. His legs ached as though they had run miles, his head throbbed with confusion.
"Where… am I?" His own voice sounded strange, hollow, as if swallowed by the air.
He looked around wildly. Nothing answered him but silence. The world was vast and empty. Not even wind stirred the dead branches.
He pressed his hands against the ground, the jagged surface biting into his palms. He could feel every detail, sharp and real. This isn't a dream. This… this is real.
Memory struck him in pieces—the prayer, the men in black, the screams, the gun. His chest burned with the phantom pain of the shot. His mind recoiled, unable to piece it all together. He clutched his head with both hands, trying to push the memories away, but they came anyway: his mother's tears, his siblings' wails, his father broken but reaching for him.
His breath came fast, ragged, though no air seemed to fill him. Panic surged, his heart pounding wildly, hammering against ribs that should have been shattered.
Dead. I'm dead. Am I?
He forced himself to remember his father's teachings. Breathe. Slowly. In. Out. He inhaled, exhaled, though the air here was cold and flavorless, empty of life. Still, the rhythm steadied him.
He staggered to his feet, legs trembling but holding. The plain stretched in every direction, an endless sea of ash and stone. No home. No family. No path.
Only silence.
He turned in a slow circle, searching desperately for anything—a sign, a landmark, a voice. His eyes caught something at the far horizon.
A figure.
Small at first, but moving toward him. The shape grew as it approached, riding atop something pale. The boy squinted, his heart thudding harder with each passing second.
A rider. Clad in black robes, the hood low over his face, skeletal hands gripping reins of leather worn and brittle. His mount was a horse—if it could be called that. Its skin was ashen, its eyes hollow, its body thin as if stripped of flesh. Yet it moved with dreadful grace, hooves soundless upon the dead ground.
The boy froze. His mouth went dry, his throat locking around words he couldn't form. The sight filled him with dread so heavy he could scarcely stand. His legs wanted to buckle, to run, yet he could not tear his eyes away.
Closer. Closer still.
The rider's presence seemed to bend the silence around him, heavier, colder, as though the very air recoiled.
The boy's heart thundered. Terror rose, but so did something else—curiosity, and the desperate need for answers.
If this place was death, then perhaps only this figure could tell him what it meant.
Gathering the last shreds of his courage, the boy swallowed hard, forcing his voice out through trembling lips.
"H–hello… sir?" His words cracked in the air, small and fragile. "Do you know where we are? I was at home… and then… and then I found myself here. Could you tell me… what this place is?"
The rider did not answer at once. Silence pressed between them, long and suffocating.
At last, a voice came, deep and low, echoing with something ancient.
"Come to me, boy," it said. "For I have come to fetch you."
The boy's blood ran cold.