They walked on for what felt like hours—or perhaps moments. Time had no weight here, no rhythm to count. Only the endless plain, the ash-grey sky, and the silence of the rider's pale horse.
The boy's thoughts churned. His family's faces lingered before him like ghosts burned into his sight: his mother's tears, his father's bloodied frame, his siblings' frightened eyes. Every step he took seemed to drag him farther away from them.
He clenched his fists. If I keep walking… will I forget them?
A flicker at the edge of his vision stopped him.
"Wait," he whispered.
To his right, among the twisted trees, stood a figure. Small. Fragile. A child.
"Brother…"
The voice was high, trembling. The boy's heart lurched. He turned sharply. It was his youngest sister. She stood there in her nightclothes, her little hands outstretched, eyes glistening with tears.
"Please," she whimpered. "Don't leave me. Come back. Come home."
The boy stumbled forward, his throat tight. "No… it can't be—" He looked at the rider, desperate. "That's her! That's really her!"
The rider did not move. His hooded gaze remained fixed ahead. "It is not."
The boy ignored him. His sister's sobs filled the plain, cutting through the silence like knives. He ran toward her, arms open. "I'm here! I'm here, I won't leave you—"
He fell to his knees as his hands passed through her. She was smoke and shadow, her small form flickering, dissolving like mist in sunlight. Her eyes widened in pain. "Why didn't you save me?" she whispered—words that tore his heart apart. Then she was gone.
The boy gasped, his chest seizing, as though the gunshot had struck him again.
Before he could rise, another voice came, deeper, weary.
"Son."
He turned. His father stood there, bent and bloodied, his strong frame broken but his eyes alive with sorrow. He extended a hand. "Help me, boy. They're hurting us still. Come back. Fight for us."
The boy staggered to his feet, torn in two. "Father—"
The rider's voice came, cold and heavy. "They are not here."
But the boy's father's voice drowned it out. "Don't let us suffer. Don't abandon us. If you love us, come back."
The boy's knees buckled. He pressed his palms to his ears, shaking his head. "No… no, this isn't real. It can't be real…"
Then his mother's voice, soft and broken. "My son. Please. I can't live without you."
He looked—and there she was, tears streaming, reaching for him. Behind her, his siblings huddled together, crying, calling his name. Their faces were so clear, so alive.
The boy sobbed, staggering forward, his hands trembling toward them. "Mother… I'm here! I didn't leave you—I'm still here!"
The moment his fingers brushed hers, her skin crumbled to dust. His siblings dissolved into ash. His mother's face split, twisting into a scream before vanishing altogether.
The boy collapsed, screaming, clutching at the air. "No! No, come back—please!" His voice broke into sobs that echoed across the barren plain.
The rider dismounted. For the first time, his pale horse stood still as the hooded figure stepped toward the boy. A skeletal hand touched his shoulder—not forcefully, but firm, anchoring him.
"Do you see now?" the rider asked, his voice echoing like stone cracking.
The boy shuddered, tears streaming down his face. "Why would you show me that? Why would you let me see them?"
The rider's voice was calm, unyielding. "Not I. The plain. It reflects what you cling to. And if you cling too tightly, it will bind you here forever."
The boy's breathing was ragged, his hands curled into the dirt. He wanted to scream at the rider, to curse him, to demand to be taken back. But deep down, he knew the truth. The plain was feeding on him, using his love, his grief, against him.
Slowly, shakily, he whispered, "I don't want to stay here."
The rider's hand withdrew. He turned back to his horse, mounting once more. "Then keep walking."
The boy rose, his body trembling, his heart hollow. He dared not look back.
And as they walked on, the plain behind them seemed to whisper—faint voices calling his name, begging him to return.
He kept his eyes forward.