The sky above the village was never truly blue. As if God had spilled gray ink across the canvas of the heavens, then let it rot, slow and uncaring. Beneath it, the earth lay still—like a corpse. The houses, once built of timber and hope, were now charcoal skeletons. The wind carried dust, and the scent of burnt flesh, even the birds had forgotten how to sing. Only the sky remained, gaping wide, swallowing everything in silence.
The boy sat on the steps of what was left of his home—a roofless husk, gutted and broken. Dust clung to his face and arms. He didn't bother to wipe it away. What was the point?
Beside him, a dead dog lay stiff, eyes wide open, as if still staring at the same sky he was.
He didn't cry anymore. His tears had long dried up, soaked into the dirt or carried away with the souls that slipped free each day.
His name… didn't matter. Not anymore. Who would call him now?
His stomach ached, but hunger had become a habit—like breathing. Pain no longer needed to be acknowledged; it lived inside him now, stitched into his muscles, etched into his bones.
There had been a mother once. There had been a song that floated through the night, and warm hands that stroked his hair when the dark crept in. Now, only the wind slid through the cracks in the wall.
There had been a little brother who laughed even when his belly was empty. Now, the boy couldn't even recall the color of his eyes.
That day, the soldiers came without warning.
They swept through the village like a storm without rain—bringing only fire and bullets.
They torched the fields, shot the men who fought back, raped the women who didn't run fast enough.
He and his brother had hidden beneath the floorboards. He pressed a hand over the baby's mouth.
But a child's cry cannot be buried.
And bullets, like death, don't care about age.
He wanted to bury him.
But the earth was frozen.
So he only watched the small body turn blue beside the scorched kitchen—where the wood still held a fading warmth.
Three days. That was how long it had been since his last meal—a burnt crust of bread scavenged from the rubble of a neighbor's home.
His tongue no longer knew flavor.
He wasn't sure if he was still alive, or just hadn't had the courtesy to die yet.
That evening, he stood.
His body felt like smoke, barely there.
He didn't know where he was going—only that he couldn't stay. Not here. Not anymore.
His first step was heavy.
The ground clung to him, thick with blood and mud.
His bare feet cracked, bled.
But pain—pain was proof he hadn't vanished.
He left the house—if it could even be called that—and didn't look back.
He knew if he did, he'd never move again.
Down the stony path he walked, like a ghost.
Past fields that were once green, now black and silent.
Past carcasses of animals and people, left to rot without prayer.
Past hushed villages where the remaining survivors locked their doors, peering through cracks, afraid the filthy, hollow-eyed boy carried plague or worse—a curse.
He didn't speak.
Didn't beg.
Didn't demand.
He only walked.
Because stopping meant rotting.
Each night, he curled beneath a dead tree, like an animal, dreaming of things he couldn't remember when he woke.
And each morning, he opened his eyes with the same question burning on his tongue—never spoken, always there:
Why me?
But the world never answered.
Only the wind replied—scraping the branches like a broken violin—
And the gray sky above, still watching.
Unblinking.
Unmoved.