He lay still on the ground, breath shallow, the air thick with silence and the memory of what had just happened. His mind was a blur, but his body moved on instinct.
Slowly, he rose to his feet.
Without hesitation, he stepped over the old man's corpse-his foot pressing onto cold flesh as if nothing had occurred. No fear. No hesitation. No guilt.
He exited the house.
As he stepped outside, a strange emptiness engulfed him. No thoughts, no feelings. Just stillness. Just silence.
But then-he smiled.
He began to run, aimlessly, through the orchard that sprawled behind the old man's house. Trees blurred past him. The dry grass crunched under his feet. His chest burned, but he laughed-a broken, bitter sound.
Moments later, he collapsed.
His body gave in to exhaustion. He stared down at the earth beneath him-at nothing. And the nothingness stared back.
Suddenly, a scream tore through the air.
A man's scream. Fierce. Agonized.
He turned toward the source and ran.
Inside the nearby house, the scent of blood hit him like a wall. His eyes scanned the room: two bodies-one of a woman, her face twisted and torn, and a small boy beside her, both soaked in blood.
He turned, about to leave.
But a figure appeared.
A man. Drunk. His eyes swollen with tears.
He stumbled toward the corpses, then collapsed beside them. He wailed, clutching them as if his touch could bring them back. Then, slowly, he looked up-and saw the boy.
His sorrow turned to fury.
He lunged forward and grabbed the boy's shirt, screaming at him. Cursing him. Accusing him. Words slurred and spit-filled.
"Why?! Why them?! WHO DID THIS?!"
The boy looked back-blank. Cold.
"You did."
The man froze, confused.
The boy leaned closer. "What will you do about it?"
The man said nothing.
He fell to the floor again, crying-no longer a man, but something smaller. Fragile. Like an infant, trembling and lost.
Footsteps echoed.
From the shadowed kitchen, the boy emerged-holding a kitchen knife.
He walked slowly, his eyes dead.
He raised the blade.
And stabbed.