The dead don't scream when they die.They whisper.
Soft voices. Faint echoes. Like memories unraveling in reverse.
At least… that's how it sounded the night the sky cracked open.
I remember the color of it.It wasn't red or black.It was the color of gone.
One moment, I was in my bed.Eyes closed. Mind drifting.Then something pulled me — like gravity but sideways. Like falling into a silence that had teeth.
And then… the world was ash.
The air burned in my lungs.The sky hung like a broken mirror above me, shards of light floating across the void.The ground was covered in tombstones. Some shattered. Some still wet with blood.There was no wind. No moon. No stars. Just the heavy breath of something watching.
I was barefoot. Cold.Wearing nothing but the clothes I'd slept in: old joggers and a torn hoodie.
And in front of me—
A man knelt by a fresh grave.
He didn't look up.Didn't move.He was digging, hands raw, dirt soaked red.
I should've run.I didn't.
Because I recognized his face.
It was my uncle.
The one who'd died three years ago.Burned in a car crash. Buried in a sealed coffin.I saw his body. I went to his funeral.But here he was — mouth sewn shut with black thread. Eyes hollow. Skin pale as candle wax.
And he was digging a grave.
Mine.