The boy's steps grew heavier the further they went, as though the very ground conspired to drag him down. He kept close to the rider, afraid to stray too far, afraid of the countless shapes that wandered through the plain.
They passed a man kneeling in the dirt, his face turned skyward, lips cracked and muttering prayers that carried no sound. His hands bled as though he had been clawing at the ground for years. Yet he did not move when they passed.
A little further, a young girl stood motionless, staring at something the boy could not see. Tears streaked her cheeks, but her eyes were empty, as though her grief had hollowed her from within. When he drew near, she opened her mouth.
"Mother?" she whispered.
The boy froze. He wanted to answer, to comfort her, but her form flickered like candlelight in the wind. When he blinked, she was gone.
His chest ached. He looked up at the rider, his voice hoarse. "Why are they like this?"
"They are bound," the rider said. "By love, by grief, by anger. The threads that tied them to life still pull. They do not loosen their grip, and so they remain."
The boy's brow furrowed. "And if they never let go?"
The rider's hood turned slightly, the unseen face behind it unreadable. "Then they will wander until the plain swallows them, and nothing remains but dust."
The boy's stomach churned. He thought of his mother's face, his father's wounded frame, his siblings' wide eyes. The urge to cling burned strong inside him, a desperate need to hold to what was lost.
They passed another cluster of souls—two men locked in a fight that never ended. Their fists struck, their voices cried out, yet their blows landed like whispers, and still they struck again and again, trapped in endless hatred.
The boy recoiled, whispering, "Is this what will happen to me if I don't move on?"
The rider did not answer.
Silence stretched between them again, broken only by the shifting shadows of the lost. Each soul seemed to tug at the boy, pulling him toward despair. He wanted to stop, to speak with them, to understand. Perhaps they wanted him too, for more than once he felt hands reach for him, voices whispering words he could not make out. But the rider's presence kept them at bay, as though the horse cast a circle of shadow that none dared cross.
The boy lowered his head, voice trembling. "Do they even know they're dead?"
"Some," the rider said. "Some refuse to see. Others see only their pain."
The boy hugged his arms to his chest, the memory of his own death still burning. He had seen it. He had accepted it—or thought he had. But as the wandering shades crowded the horizon, doubt began to gnaw at him.
His voice cracked as he spoke again. "And what if I don't want to leave? What if I want to stay? To hold on to them, to remember them?"
The rider slowed, the pale horse stamping once in the dust. The boy thought he saw the hood dip, just slightly, before the rider's voice came—quiet, but sharp.
"Then you will become one of them."
The words struck like a blow. The boy faltered, his legs weak. He stared at the wandering souls again, at their hollow eyes and ceaseless motions. For the first time, he saw himself among them—lost, broken, muttering the names of his family until even his voice turned to dust.
His chest tightened, breath catching. He stumbled, clutching at his knees, whispering, "No… no, I don't want that."
The rider watched in silence, the pale horse shifting beneath him.
When the boy finally rose again, he did not look at the shades. He fixed his eyes on the rider's dark shape, forcing his legs to keep moving.
Yet inside, fear grew. Not fear of death—for death had already come—but fear of being left behind, swallowed by the plain.