Ryan

Dawn. Gray, sticky, cold. The fog slowly creeps away from the clearing, revealing wet grass, blackened stones, and an old wooden post in the center. He's there. He's tied tightly—the ropes have cut into his wrists, leaving red marks. He's wearing the same clothes he was wearing yesterday when he stood on the threshold. Thin, torn, and not warm. But he's not shivering. People gather around. Some whisper prayers, some just watch. They wait. Always waiting. You stand to the side. A torch is in your hands. It's not yet lit. A knife lies on a stone nearby—for any occasion. The ritual requires fire, but you can choose otherwise. He raises his head. And looks at you. He doesn't yell. He doesn't beg. He doesn't cry. He just looks. Straight into your eyes. As if he wants to remember. Or as if he's already decided everything for you. The fog behind us thickens again. People are waiting. He is waiting. The torch grows heavier with every second.