Not far from where Doran laid gasping in the dirt, another breath broke the silence.
It was sharp.
Sudden.
Alive.
Benji's chest rose with a violent jolt, as if the world had slammed breath back into his lungs by force. He clutched at the ground beneath him, fingers digging into scorched earth as his body convulsed.
His eyes snapped open.
And for a moment, there was nothing.
No sound.
No memory.
No meaning.
Just the burn in his chest, the raw scrape of breath, and the weight of silence pressing down from all sides.
He pushed himself up slowly—arms shaking, legs barely holding. Ash clung to his skin, and golden dust shimmered faintly on his clothes like something sacred and profane all at once.
Then he looked up.
And saw what remained.
Fructum Village was gone.
In its place stood a graveyard of stillness—frozen light, twisted silhouettes, and impossible beauty forged from unspeakable loss.
Benji stared, unmoving.
He didn't cry.
Didn't scream.
Didn't speak.
He just stood there, shoulders rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths, as his mind tried to understand what his eyes refused to accept.
They were all gone.
Mira.
The children.
The mothers and fathers.
The neighbors.
The laughter.
All of it—gone.
Preserved in gold, locked in time like a forgotten prayer.
A flicker of movement caught his eye—far off, near the village edge.
A silhouette.
Someone else had survived.
Doran.
He watched as the boy he'd grown up with knelt in the dirt, his body trembling, hands curled into fists, rage burning through him like wildfire.
Benji started walking.
Step by step, the closer he drew, the more clearly he saw it—the pain, the grief, the fury radiating from Doran like heat from a broken furnace.
Benji didn't stop.
He walked past him.
Didn't speak.
Didn't look back.
He kept going.
Through the gilded remains of the village.
Past the twisted gold trees and frozen, screaming faces.
Through memories turned to monuments.
His walk turned into a jog.
Then a run.
Then a sprint.
Faster.
He passed the wooden bridge without seeing it.
Pushed through the forest without feeling it.
No path.
No destination.
Just movement.
Just escape.
Justrun.
Behind him, Doran burned with rage.
But Benji—
Benji felt nothing.
No tears.
No screams.
Only the yawning emptiness stretching inside him like a canyon without end.
The world around him turned gray.
And then—
His legs gave out.
He collapsed—face-first into the earth, breath catching, hands limp at his sides.
Not from pain.
Not from exhaustion.
But from the sheer, unbearable weight of everything and nothing—
All at once.
He didn't move.
He couldn't.
For maybe minutes.
Maybe hours.
Maybe longer…
Time had no meaning anymore.
Then—
Mira's laugh echoed from somewhere.
Doran, muddy-faced, wooden sword raised.
"Come on, Benji! You're too slow!"
The memory cracked.
The joy twisted.
Now Doran was screaming into the sky—
And Benji flinched, closing his eyes, unable to watch.
When he opened them again, the world had changed.
The storm howled through the forest like a living thing—wild, angry, relentless.
Thunder cracked above, splitting the sky into jagged streaks of white.
Rain poured in sheets, turning the trail to flowing mud.
A lone carriage creaked along the winding road, its wheels struggling for grip. The driver hunched forward, cloak soaked, hands tight on the reins.
"Storm's a beast tonight," he muttered, barely audible over the roar. "Hope the animals are alright."
He glanced back at the covered cart.
"You holding up back there, buddy?"
Inside, a young, blanket-wrapped Benji sat curled around a wiry terrier with bright, alert eyes.
"I'm okay, Dad!"
The boy's voice was small, but sure.
"Coco is too!"
Benji smiled, rubbing the dog's head. Coco gave a soft bark, tail thumping.
His father turned and smiled—warm, even through the rain.
"Good. We'll be home soon. Gotta get you and Coco dry."
Benji nodded, hugging Coco tighter.
Then—
The sky changed.
A strange light broke through the clouds—dim at first, flickering like a star glimpsed through fog.
His father squinted.
"That's weird. You can't see stars in this kind of weather…"
The light brightened.
Grew.
"Wait… that's not a star. That's—"
A ship. Flaming. Tearing across the sky.
Its hull broke apart midair, pieces spinning wildly as it crashed toward the forest with a deafening roar.
"WHOA!"
The horses reared. His father pulled hard on the reins. The carriage skidded to a halt.
A massive plume of smoke curled into the sky.
"Stay here, Benji!" his father barked, already leaping down into the mud. "I'm going to check it out!"
Benji peeked from under the blanket, heart pounding as he watched his father disappear into the storm.
The forest swallowed him.
Then—
"Benji! Come help me!"
The boy bolted from the wagon, Coco darting at his heels.
Through rain and ash, they reached the wreckage. A sail hung torn, caught on a broken branch. The hull lay shattered, metal sparking and hissing as fire battled the downpour.
His father hauled back a heavy steel beam, teeth gritted.
"He's just a kid—help me pull him out!"
Benji scrambled forward.
In the wreckage, strapped into a ruined pilot's seat, was a boy—six at most.
Blood streaked his forehead. His skin was pale. He didn't move.
Benji and Coco grabbed his arms and pulled.
The wreck groaned, shuddering beneath them.
"Keep going!"
"Almost there!"
They tumbled backward, dragging the boy clear.
Benji landed hard. Coco yipped.
His father rushed in, scooping the unconscious child into his arms.
"I'll carry him. You keep him warm."
Benji nodded quickly, still staring at the boy.
His face was peaceful. Too still. Like sleep—but deeper.
Coco padded up and nuzzled the boy's limp hand.
Benji reached out and gripped it gently.
"We got you," he whispered.
Pain exploded behind his eyes.
A searing, blinding ache—like lightning splitting his mind in two.
The memory shattered.
The boy looked up from his father's arms.
But he wasn't unconscious anymore.
Not in this memory.
Not now.
It was Doran—eyes burning, mouth drawn into a tight, bitter line.
"So willing to throw away fourteen years," he said, voice low and sharp.
"To think I called you a friend."
Benji stumbled back, heart racing.
"It's not my fault…"
The words barely left his mouth.
But the boy didn't blink.
Didn't forgive.
Benji squeezed his eyes shut.
Make it stop.
Just stop.
Silence.
The storm faded.
The smoke. The burning ship.
Doran.
All of it slipped away like ash in water.
And in its place—her.
The river was slow that day, gentle in its flow, mirroring the golden evening light. It curled through the edge of the village like a needle, threading trees and memories together.
Benji sat on the old stone ledge beneath the bridge, boots half-submerged in the current. Mira was beside him—close enough for their shoulders to brush if either dared to move.
Neither did.
The silence between them was soft. Comfortable. Dangerous.
She tossed a pebble into the river. It skipped twice, then sank.
"You ever wonder what's out there?" she asked, her voice low and distant.
"Past the rivers, past the woods, past everything?"
Benji shrugged.
"Sometimes."
"What do you think it's like?"
He thought for a moment.
"Quiet," he said finally. "But not lonely."
She glanced at him, brow lifted.
"That's oddly specific."
"Just a guess."
She smiled—barely. Just a curve at the corner of her mouth.
The breeze shifted. A few strands of her hair brushed against his arm.
He didn't move.
"I think I'd miss this place," she murmured. "Even if I left."
"You'd miss the fish guts and firewood hauls?" he teased, nudging her lightly.
"Maybe not those." She laughed.
It hit him like a second sunrise.
Then the laughter faded, and her eyes drifted toward the horizon.
"Benji?"
"Yeah?"
She hesitated.
The kind of pause that held the edge of a truth she wasn't sure she was allowed to say.
"Never mind."
"What?"
"It's nothing."
But it wasn't.
He knew it.
She knew he knew it.
But neither of them said it.
Instead, they sat in the growing dusk, feet in the river, hearts in the space between them—
Too young to name it. Too scared to break it.
And when the stars came out, she leaned just slightly against him.
Just enough to say everything.
Darkness.
Benji gasped for air—startled. Awake.
Moonlight filtered through the canopy above, painting pale streaks across the forest floor.
He lay crumpled in the dirt, chest heaving, hands clenched into the earth like he might fall through it.
His throat burned.
His eyes stayed shut.
He didn't want to open them.
Didn't want to see a world without her in it.
You should've said something, the thought whispered.
So should she.
But silence had always been easier than truth.
And now, there was no one left to hear it.
Slowly, shakily, he sat up.
The forest was quiet.
Too quiet.
No birds.
No wind.
No laughter.
Only the hush of moonlit branches—
And the echo of memories still burning behind his eyes.
He looked around—
And for a moment, he hoped it wasn't real.
That he was still dreaming.
Still drowning.
Still caught in the spiral of grief.
But it was real.
The ash on his skin.
The shimmer of gold still clinging to his sleeves.
The emptiness ringing in his chest like a bell struck hollow.
This wasn't a dream. It was the waking world.
And it had become a nightmare.
A true one.
Born of light.
Forged in silence.