I woke up in a place where air does not exist—yet I'm still drowning.The ground breathes, and with every exhale, the soil whispers my name with voices I've never known.I walk aimlessly, and my footsteps sound as if someone else repeats them, a few seconds later, behind me.
I've tried to look back, but the horizon bends upon itself, denying me the past.Here, memories have weight, and every cursed thought drags across my skin like burning dust.
I saw faces floating between the cracks of the earth.They didn't ask for help; they asked for silence.Some cried with black tears, others laughed through shattered mouths,but all of them seemed to know something I didn't.When I tried to speak, my voice fell apart—crumbling into the air like ash.
There is no sky.Only a red expanse pulsing like an open wound.The wind carries an ancient, familiar scent...as if every particle of this place once belonged to a body.
In the distance, there is a tower.Tall, thin, impossible.It seems made of glass and bone,and inside it, I hear the sound of a broken harmonica.I don't know if the music comes from it—or from me—but every note erases a piece of my memory.
I don't know how long I've been walking toward that tower,or if I ever move closer.Maybe this hell has no paths, only circles pretending to be roads.
And then, something happens.A whisper.It doesn't come from the ground, nor the air, nor the faces below.It comes from within.A voice that isn't mine, but lives inside me.
It says my name—a name that shouldn't exist here,a name I do not yet know.
And then I understand something dreadful:perhaps I am not dead.Perhaps I am the memory of someone who is.