A boy stood upon a wooden platform.
The rope, like a silent serpent, coiled around his neck. He could feel the rough fibers scraping against his skin. A cold wind swept through the square, tugging at his worn cloak. Beneath his feet, the platform's rotten planks let out faint creaks with every gust, as though they, too, knew what fate awaited him.
People filled the square as far as the eye could see.
Faces blurred together in the crowd. Curious gazes, indifferent eyes, and lips moving beneath an endless murmur. Old and young, men and women, they had all gathered to witness the end of a boy's life. A boy whose crime, at least in their eyes, had been nothing more than defiance.
But the boy wasn't looking at the crowd.
What if, after all these years, after all the suffering and all the words I've buried deep inside me, I finally fall silent?
He tore his gaze away from the sky and looked straight at the people.
Thousands of eyes stared back at him. Some indifferent, some curious, and others perhaps simply waiting for it all to be over. These were people who would probably wake up the next morning, eat their bread, go to work, and carry on with their lives, as though nothing had happened. As though there hadn't been a boy standing on a wooden platform today, speaking his final words to a sky that had never once answered him.
Perhaps by tomorrow, no one would even remember his name.
That thought frightened him more than death itself.
He drew in a deep breath of cold air. For a moment, he wished he could say something that would linger in the people's ears forever. Something they would never be able to forget.
He screamed.
"For FREEEDOOOM!"
His voice swept across the square, struck the stone walls, and echoed through the city's narrow streets.
At that very moment, the platform beneath his feet gave way.
The world tilted all at once. The sound of splintering wood pierced the silence, and then everything plunged into darkness.
But just before the last of it faded, he felt that something had been left behind inside his chest. Something that death could not erase, something that would not be silenced so easily.
---
Kourosh jolted awake, gasping for breath.
For several moments, he simply stared into the darkness. His heart was pounding, and he could barely catch his breath. He pressed a hand against his chest, then looked around.
A felt tent. An old blanket. The smell of sheep's wool.
Everything was familiar.
He was Kourosh. Sixteen years old. Mehrdad's son. His life unfolded between the plains and the mountains. His mother lived in the village, and whenever they had the chance, he and his father went to visit her. His father was a shepherd, and they spent most of the year out with the flock.
He remembered everything.
Their home, his father, his mother, the days of his childhood, even the petty arguments he'd had with the village children.
But something wasn't right.
The image of the boy standing on that wooden platform still lingered before his eyes. He remembered the crowd's voices, the cold air, the people's stares, and the fear the boy had tried so desperately to conceal.
But who was that boy?
Why did the memory of his death feel more real than the memories of his own life?
Kourosh dragged a hand across his face. He was sweating. There were no wounds on his body, yet a strange coldness remained inside him, a chill that seemed to have come from somewhere else.
He closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep again.
He couldn't.
So he stepped outside the tent.
The air before dawn was cold. The sky had yet to brighten completely, and gray clouds covered much of it. The ground was still damp from the previous night's rain, and the scent of wet earth lingered across the plain.
The flock was grazing near their resting place. His father, Mehrdad, was busy gathering their belongings and preparing the sheep for the journey to pasture. He had his felt hat on and was tightening the rope around one of the bags.
Mehrdad glanced at his son.
"You're up early again?"
Kourosh didn't answer.
His father smiled. "What is it? Another bad dream?"
Kourosh raised his head.
The sky looked strange.
He didn't know why, but he felt as though something was hiding behind those clouds. Something that had been waiting there for years, and was now looking straight at him.
Mehrdad called out to him.
"Kourosh?"
The boy blinked, but his gaze remained fixed on the sky.
"Dad, have you ever hated something without knowing why?"
Mehrdad stopped what he was doing.
"Something like what?"
"A sound, a smell, a view. Something everyone else sees and thinks is normal, but the moment you see it, all you want to do is run away."
Mehrdad thought for a moment.
"Yeah, I suppose. But what's brought this on?"
Kourosh looked up at the sky again.
"Look at it."
The clouds drifted slowly over one another. There was something about them he couldn't put into words. The sky had always been a peaceful, comforting sight to him, a place he could gaze at for hours while thinking about things no one else seemed to care about.
But now, the sight of it filled him with disgust.
It was as though something black and rotten lay hidden behind all those clouds and that dull gray color. Something that had remained alive for far too long, something that was pleased to see him.
His throat burned.
He raised a hand to his mouth, but he couldn't stop himself from throwing up. He bent forward and vomited onto the ground. His body trembled with the effort, and tears welled in his eyes.
Mehrdad hurried to his side.
"Kourosh! What's wrong, son? Are you alright?"
He placed a hand on his son's back.
Kourosh coughed several times, struggling to breathe. He could still see the sky. Even with his head lowered, he felt that darkness watching him from above.
In a hoarse voice, he whispered, "Dad... why is it so filthy?"
Mehrdad frowned.
"What's filthy?"
Kourosh pointed toward the sky.
"Up there. Why does it feel like there's something up there that shouldn't exist?"
Mehrdad looked up. All he saw were clouds and an overcast sky.
He turned back to his son.
"Maybe you're just not feeling well. Come on, sit down for a bit."
Kourosh said nothing.
Mehrdad led him to the dying fire and helped him sit beside it. He lifted the kettle from the ashes, then tossed a few pieces of dry firewood onto the embers.
"I'll take the flock to the upper pasture. Your mother is waiting for you in the village, too. If you don't feel better, I'll take you to her."
Kourosh nodded.
"I'll be fine, Dad."
Mehrdad studied his son's face for a moment. He was pale, and his gaze kept drifting back toward the sky.
"Eat something. And don't wander too far."
Then he headed toward the flock and led the sheep away.
Kourosh remained where he was, watching his father disappear into the distance.
---
Mehrdad led the sheep toward the mountainside. He knew the path like the back of his hand. The rocks, the little spring, and the dead tree he always passed on his way.
But that day, as he approached the slope, he suddenly stopped.
A smell reached his nose.
It was an unfamiliar scent, bitter and heavy, something between scorched earth and stale air. It smelled nothing like the wild animals of the forest, nor like the wet grass.
Mehrdad lifted his head.
He scanned his surroundings for a few moments. Then, under his breath, he muttered,
"Looks like we've got unexpected guests again."
His expression changed.
He let go of the rope. The sheep, paying him no mind, continued toward the meadow. Without hesitation, Mehrdad turned back.
His steps quickened, and his eyes constantly swept over his surroundings.
He had to find Kourosh.
He had to tell him to hide.
When he reached their resting place, the tent was empty.
"Kourosh?"
There was no answer.
He took a few steps forward and looked around.
"Kourosh!"
Still, silence.
His gaze fell upon the belongings beside the tent. His son's walking stick was missing, too.
Mehrdad searched the area. He went behind the tent, around the old tree, and even as far as the beginning of the path leading into the forest.
But his son was nowhere to be found.
He muttered under his breath,
"Where has that curious boy wandered off to now?"
His gaze settled on the forest.
The very forest Kourosh had always asked questions about. The same place where he sometimes claimed to hear strange sounds.
Mehrdad clenched his jaw.
There was no time to waste.
He had to reach the village. Kourosh's mother was there, and if something had happened, she needed to know as soon as possible.
For a few moments, he stared into the forest, as though he still hoped his son would emerge from between the trees.
But no one came.
Mehrdad suddenly set off.
He took one step, then another, and something strange happened.
The distance between him and the village seemed to vanish.
The wind swept across the plain. The grass bent beneath an invisible force, and a brief cloud of dust rose from the earth.
In the blink of an eye, Mehrdad was gone.
Had anyone been there to witness it, they might have thought that the man who had been standing there just moments before had suddenly vanished from the world itself.
---
Kourosh could no longer hear the sheep's bells.
He had sat beside the tent for a while, but that strange, oppressive feeling refused to leave him. Every time he closed his eyes, the same images returned.
The stone square. The crowd. The wooden platform.
And that boy.
Kourosh didn't know why, but something about those memories troubled him. It was as though his mind was trying to recall something he wasn't yet ready to understand.
At last, he got to his feet.
His gaze fell upon the forest.
For a long time, something there had caught his attention. Sometimes, in his dreams, he saw the entrance of a cave hidden among the trees. A cave he grew closer to with each dream, yet never quite managed to enter.
Today, he felt that he had to go there.
It wasn't exactly curiosity. It was more like the feeling of someone who had lost something and had no idea where to begin looking for it.
He picked up his long walking stick and tucked some bread into his bag. Then he set off toward the forest.
The closer he got, the cooler the air became. The sounds of the open plain gradually faded, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the calls of birds.
Ancient oak trees stretched their branches overhead, intertwining above him. Morning light filtered through them, falling across the wet leaves on the forest floor.
Kourosh glanced around.
Snow still lingered in some parts of the forest, but the farther he went, the less he felt the grip of winter. Some trees had even kept their green leaves despite the season.
This part of the forest had always been strange.
The old men in the village said that wild animals were common around these parts, and that no one should venture there alone. Kourosh himself had heard strange sounds among the trees on several occasions.
A sound like the breathing of something enormous, something that fell silent whenever he approached.
A few minutes later, he heard it again.
This time, there was another sound accompanying it.
The harsh scrape of something hard against stone.
Kourosh stopped.
He tightened his grip on his walking stick and moved toward a cluster of dense bushes growing beside several large boulders.
The sound came again.
He slowly pushed the branches aside.
And froze.
An enormous stag stood beside a rock. Its antlers twisted upward on either side of its head, and it was scraping the ground with one of its front hooves.
But its size wasn't what rooted Kourosh to the spot.
Blue markings covered its dark hide. Thin lines, like veins of the night sky, stretched from its neck down along its flanks, glowing faintly in the dim forest light.
The stag raised its head.
Its eyes met Kourosh's.
The boy held his breath.
The forest had fallen silent.
The stag remained motionless, and Kourosh, his walking stick clutched in his hand, stared at a creature that seemed to have come from another world.
For a few moments, neither of them moved.
Then the stag lifted its hoof from the ground.
The scraping stopped.
Kourosh stared at the blue markings.
The lines across the animal's body glimmered for an instant.
And at that very moment, the sound of a branch snapping came from behind him.
The boy spun around.
But there was nothing there.
When he looked back at the stag, the animal was still standing in the same place.
And the forest, as though waiting for something, remained silent.
Something that had yet to begin.