Somewhere, deep within the forest, where the scent of mud mingled with the scent of night, and where nothing could be heard but the whisper of wind among tall trees—there was a faint sound, like the murmuring of a fire kindled not to conquer silence, but to break it gently. A moonlit night, quiet and cold, where moonlight scattered across damp leaves, making everything shimmer as if dusted with silver ash. Amid that stillness, a small fire flickered. Its flames twisted slowly. In front of it sat that person, who had no name yet.
He fed the fire with sticks of wood, with a calm hand that had known solitude, flame, and the road. And on the other side, near the rising warmth, Tharos lay on his back, wrapped in that woolen coat, sleeping as he hadn't in a time that could not be measured by years.
His face was calm, slightly troubled, as if his soul was still trying to catch up with his body, or perhaps it simply couldn't believe the sudden peace it had been given.
That person sat still, silent, unmoving, watching Tharos sleep like a warrior watching a comrade who no longer rises after battle. In his blue eyes—a dull glimmer, fatigue not of the body, but the exhaustion of long years of waiting, of trying… and of disappointment.
Hours passed.
The fire dimmed, and the moon handed the night over to a shy sun rising through the branches. And Tharos… was still lost in sleep, as if slumber had become his final refuge from every question without an answer.
That person sighed, his breath leaving his chest like rust escaping ancient iron.
Then he said, his voice coarse as stone:
"No hope in you… huh... It'll be hard this time."
His voice carried no anger, but was full of disappointment, like someone who knows the way, but can't force anyone to walk it.
He approached, bent once more, and lifted Tharos in his arms, as one would carry an unbroken ancient vow. And before a sun that began to paint gold upon the earth, that person began to walk, with steady steps, toward a destination unseen, known only to him.
Their shadows vanished between tree trunks, and the fire faded behind them, as if it had been lit only to offer a warm farewell… to one who never woke.
After a long time, a gray sky rains over a deserted city, the city destroyed.
Buildings cracked, doors unhinged, and glass shattered in every corner. Everything pointed to destruction not caused by time, but by intent — though time had hastened it.
Still, no one was here.
No people, no animals, no trace of life.
Rain fell in silence, as if the sky alone had not forgotten this land. Suddenly—a single sound pierced the stillness.
Running. Fast, steady, heavy.
That person reappeared, running with all his might, carrying Tharos on his back like one bearing a prophecy they wish never to fulfill.
He ran through water-soaked alleys, between hollow buildings and dead windows, and in his eyes—there was no fear, but worry… as if time was chasing him, not a creature.
Strangely, no one followed. No shadow, no figure, no echo of a pursuer. Only him, him and the sound of rain, and the echo of his footsteps pleading for survival.
He entered the alley like one thrown into an open grave. The air was still, bearing no scent of rain, but something older… and heavier. Dust untouched for ages, and light absent as if it was never meant for this place.
He found a house with no door, no call, no life, but it was enough—enough to hold a single moment of safety, enough to postpone the fear. He collapsed inside, then gently laid Tharos down, as if placing his own heart on the ground.
The boy was still asleep, his face still, bearing burn marks, as if fire had been set beneath his eyes.
That person ran to the windows, their wood half-shattered, groaning in agony, he closed them, and hid behind them, not from the rain… but from something else, something that had followed him since the first deserted street. Something faceless… but skilled in fear.
He blocked the door with an old rock, then returned, his eyes scanning endlessly, for a spark, a tool, something to steal a moment of warmth from this eternal cold. He found some wood, wet, broken, but it was all that remained. With trembling hands, he lit a fire as if breathing life into something fleeting.
The fire caught, weak, hesitant, but it was light. And light, in this darkness… was a miracle. That person sat beside Tharos, exhausted, as if weariness had drained every sound from his soul.
He watched the flame, and in it saw faces he no longer remembered, and shadows that had once been loved… then swallowed by void.
But there—beyond all that—something still moved outside the walls, something that knew where they were, something that didn't need to be seen. It crafted silence... as if silence were the only way to survive.
---
On the other side, someone was pretending to sleep, but his heart was awake, pounding in his chest like it sought an escape.
Tharos was no coward, but what he had seen, what he had felt, what he now existed in… was older than his age, deeper than any words he knew. He had never known this world, knew nothing of its rules, its creatures, or even its intentions. And that person… the one sitting beside him now, his forehead drenched in sweat from running, looking at him with pale eyes and shivering hands, had saved him? Yes. But at the same time, was unknown, and strange, like everything else in this place exiled from time.
Tharos remained still, his breathing slow, deliberate, every muscle in his body tight beneath parched skin. Even the air around him didn't feel like the air he once knew, but was heavy, muffled, as if the world here didn't want anyone to breathe out loud. And while that person blew on the fire to keep it alive, and buried his fear in a weary sigh, Tharos began to reconstruct himself in silence:
Who am I? Where am I?
And where did the voice go that always accompanied me?
Vilmer's voice… which once whispered even in the deepest dark.
But now, no voice.
No whisper.
Not even a shadow.
Everything was gone… except the frost in his chest, and this thick silence he now wore like second skin. And in the moment silence was about to turn into inner screaming, that person approached Tharos, looked at him for a long time, then whispered:
"I know you're not asleep."
Tharos didn't move. But his heart… skipped a beat. The man smiled with exhaustion, and added:
"I was afraid, too… that I'd one day open my eyes and find the world had changed without me."
Then he returned to the fire, turning his back to him. And Tharos… finally opened his eyes, and said nothing. But he knew — silence was no longer his only shield.
That person looked at Tharos and smiled, a strange smile holding neither sarcasm nor joy, but something like a confession, as if something within him saw in Tharos what he could not explain with words. Then he sighed deeply, as though the breath had crawled out of a soul worn by time, and said in a quiet but firm voice:
"Perhaps we survived this time… but I don't think we'll survive much longer if you don't move."
A short silence followed, filled with the sound of fire dancing on damp wood, and the scent of rain mixed with ancient dust crept in through cracks in the walls. Then that person looked again at Tharos, this time seeing the deep weariness in him, as if his body hadn't known rest for a very long time, despite being awake for quite a while now.
He looked at him warmly, with a gentle voice full of comfort and calm, he said:
"Don't exhaust yourself… You must sleep now. I'll be here, awake for you."
Tharos felt the warmth of those words, like a rare shot of heat piercing the coldness in his frozen body. He surrendered again to sleep, a deep sleep that hid all pain, all fear, and all loneliness. As for that person, he kept watching him, smiling, stirring the fire gently, waking it from its ashes, so it wouldn't die… so warmth, however small, would remain in this abandoned corner of the world.