"Don't fear the reaper.
For the reaper is gentle toward poor souls."
Mark woke before the light reached the broken windows.
The house was quiet in the way only empty places are. no settling wood, no distant voices, no footsteps that belonged to anyone else. He rolled off the thin mattress and sat for a moment, rubbing his eyes, listening out of habit. Nothing answered.
It had been like this for a long time.
The house had once been his. That was what he told himself, at least. He still slept in the same room. Still used the same door. Still remembered where things used to be before they were sold, burned, or carried away.
His parents never came back.
He didn't think about that much anymore.
Mark dressed quickly and checked what he had: herbs wrapped in twine, a rabbit hide folded tight, a stick, flint, and a small cloth he'd washed and dried himself. Enough to trade. Enough to eat. Enough to last the day.
He liked mornings. They were quiet and predictable. No one bothered him before the city woke up.
On his way out, he stopped by the river.
A woman was bathing in the shallow water.
Mark slowed but didn't approach. He wasn't curious like other kids. He preferred distance. People caused problems. He had learned that early.
She didn't move.
The water rippled around her legs, but her body stayed still, head bowed, hair drifting as if it didn't belong to her. Mark watched for a few seconds longer than he meant to, then turned away.
He didn't look back.
The city was louder by the time he reached the market streets. Too loud. Too many boots. Too many voices that didn't belong together.
Officials stood in a loose ring near one of the side roads. Not guards. something higher.. Their clothes were clean. Their faces weren't.
Mark adjusted his pace and kept his head down. He hadn't stolen anything today. He didn't plan to.
The shop he usually sold to was closed.
So was the next.
And the next.
A strip of white cloth lay on the ground near the corner of one shuttered door. Clean. Untorn. He picked it up and folded it into his pocket without thinking much about it.
The streets thinned as he walked.
Buildings leaned where they hadn't before. Corners felt longer. Paths bent gently without reason. When he turned around, the officials were gone.
So was everyone else.
The city had emptied itself.
At the end of the road stood a doorframe.
No wall. No building. Just a door, standing upright, open.
Mark stopped.
He waited.
Nothing happened.
He stepped through.
Darkness swallowed the sound first. Then the air changed. thick, wet, cold. He struck flint and wrapped the cloth around his stick. The torch caught easily.
Behind him, the doorframe remained.
Beyond it, there was no city.
No sky.
Just space.
Mark didn't scream. He didn't run. He moved forward because there was nowhere else to go.
The ground sloped downward. Always downward. Hours passed without landmarks. The torch burned steadily. His stomach cramped. He chewed the rabbit's foot to keep his jaw working.
When he turned back, the slope did not rise.
Later, the doorframe appeared again. broken this time, splintered, useless.
Mark sat beside it and cried until his throat hurt.
The cold crept into his hands. The damp clung to his clothes. He stopped crying because there was no reason to continue.
Something shifted behind him.
Hands found his head.
The twist was quick.
The fire fell with him.
The pain came slow.
Somewhere close, something tried to make a sound.
It didn't succeed.