Rafael wasn't sure if the old man had ever been real or if he was merely a hallucination born of madness. Perhaps his mind had finally shattered, splintered by the unending torment.
But one thing gnawed at him relentlessly: that single word the old man had spoken—"Wrong."
Why? Why was it wrong?
"Were my sins not the reason I'm here?" Rafael muttered through cracked lips, his voice hoarse and hollow. He replayed the moment in his mind endlessly, dissecting it again and again while the skeletons continued their gruesome work.
Steel bit into his flesh, bones cracked, and his body was torn apart piece by piece—but by now, the pain had become meaningless. It was no less excruciating, but he had endured it so long that his screams had dwindled into silence. He felt the agony, but he no longer reacted.
Instead, he thought. He obsessed. If that wasn't the answer… then what was?
Time blurred. Days, weeks, or perhaps centuries—it was impossible to tell in this eternal prison. Rafael's mind was a storm of questions without answers.
And then, one cycle—amid the crimson sky and whispering wheat—the old man appeared again.
As before, he walked with slow, deliberate steps, his cane tapping softly against the ground. The skeletons ignored him, parting like mist as he approached.
Rafael, bloody and barely coherent, lifted his head with what little strength remained.
The old man stopped in front of him, his gray eyes empty and unfeeling. Then, in that same rasping voice, he asked:
"Tell me, boy… do you know why you are here?"
Rafael's lips trembled as he tried to speak. His voice was raw, more a whisper than before.
"Because…" he croaked, forcing the words out, "I'm here… because I died."
The old man tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable.
"And what," he asked, tapping his cane against the ground, "is the meaning of death?"
Rafael stared at him, stunned by the question. He had never thought about it. Not really. His mind, sluggish from endless torment, grasped at the simplest answer.
"Death…" he said weakly, "is the end. When everything stops. When… it's over."
The old man stared at him in silence for a long, suffocating moment. Then, his lips curled into a faint, pitying smile.
"Wrong," he whispered.
Rafael's eyes widened. "W-What do you mean wrong?"
The old man leaned closer, his shadow falling over Rafael. His voice was quiet but cut deeper than any blade:
"If death is the end…" he said slowly, "then why are you still here?"
Rafael froze. His breath caught in his throat. For the first time in what felt like eternity, the skeletons paused their torment. The wheat field fell silent, windless and still.
The old man straightened his back, his dull gray eyes boring into Rafael's soul.
"You cling to false answers because they are easy," he continued. "But truth is never easy. Think, boy. Why do you remain chained here if death is the end?"
Rafael shook his head desperately. "I… I don't know!"
The old man turned away, his ragged cloak shifting in the still air. "Then you are not ready," he muttered.
And just like before, his form began to crumble—his body flaking apart into ash that scattered into the void-red sky.
"Wait!" Rafael screamed, thrashing against his chains. "Tell me! What's the answer?! COME BACK!"
But the old man was gone, leaving only silence… and then, as if on cue, the skeletons began their work again.
The cycle resumed.
Rafael hung limply from his chains, his mind consumed by the old man's words.
"If death is the end… then why are you still here?"
He replayed it over and over, the question gnawing at him even as the skeletons continued their cruel cycle. Every stab, every drop of blood, every resurrection faded into the background of his thoughts.
What was death?
He thought about his own death—the gunshot, the darkness, waking up in this place. He thought about how it never truly ended. He was here, bound, conscious, suffering. If death wasn't the end… then what was it?
For what felt like centuries, Rafael pondered in silence. And then, slowly, a realization bloomed in his broken mind.
"Death… isn't the end," he whispered to himself. "It's… something else."
Hope—small, frail, but alive—sparked in his chest. He clung to it, rehearsing his answer over and over.
He waited.
And then, finally, the wheat field stirred.
The old man appeared once more, shuffling forward with his cane, his hollow eyes fixed on Rafael. The skeletons stepped back, retreating into the endless stalks of wheat, as if even they knew to give space for what was about to come.
The old man stopped before him. His voice was the same dry rasp:
"Tell me, boy… do you know why you are here?"
Rafael's heart pounded. He swallowed, then spoke clearly, despite his parched throat:
"Because I died."
The old man nodded faintly, his gaze sharpening.
"And what is death?"
Rafael took a deep breath, steeling himself. His answer was ready.
"Death…" he said slowly, his voice trembling with both fear and hope, "is not the end. It's… the beginning of what comes after."
The old man's expression shifted ever so slightly. His lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile, and his eyes glimmered for the first time.
The old man's faint smile lingered as he leaned closer, his gray eyes boring into Rafael's soul.
"One more question," he said, his voice low but commanding. "Answer it truthfully, and I will decide your fate."
Rafael tensed, anticipation clawing at him.
"If you were to return to the world of the living—" the old man paused, his words echoing across the empty wheat field, "—what would you change?"
Rafael hesitated. The silence was suffocating, his thoughts racing. And then he spoke:
"I… would change only one thing," he rasped. "The number of bullets I had the night I died."
The old man raised a brow. "Explain."
Rafael clenched his fists against the chains. "If I'd had more, I would've killed them all—every last one of those bastards. I would've walked out alive ."
He lowered his head. "A man like me doesn't get peace. I'd keep fighting, keep surviving, because it's all I know. A quiet life? I'd never last."
The old man stared at him for a long, tense moment… then suddenly threw his head back and laughed.
The sound was harsh, wild, echoing across the field like thunder. The skeletons vanished into dust, the chains binding Rafael cracked and split, and the crimson sky above began to fracture with light.
"You…" the old man chuckled, wiping a tear from his eye, "You are honest to the very end. Unrepentant. Shamelessly true to yourself."
He tapped his cane against the ground, and the world trembled.
"Rafael," the old man declared, his voice booming now, "you have been pardoned."
Blinding light engulfed everything, swallowing Rafael whole.