A man knelt on both knees, his mouth wide in a scream that made no sound. He stared at a sky devoid of stars and moon, yet a disembodied light bathed his features. All around him, grass and weeds crept relentlessly closer and closer, snaking over his legs, arms, and up his torso in a slow embrace.
With a pained and labored movement, the Man jerked his head downward. He took in his surroundings, noting the landscape around looked and felt distinctly incomplete, like the blurred memory of a meadow half-forgotten. Shadows shifted at its edges, and the horizon dissolved into a darkness with no discernible end. A gentle breeze swept through the area, and the grass swayed in complete silence. The unnatural stillness here was not unlike what one expects in the farthest depths of the Earth—a void that consumes every sound, leaving only the expectation of one’s heartbeat. The Man found he even lacked even that.
“How long have I been here?” a voice sounded from behind, startling the Man. He tried to turn his head toward the sound, but vines surged upward, twisting around his neck and jaw, anchoring him in place. It was foreign and unfamiliar at first, as it always is when hearing it from outside, but the Man quickly realized the voice was his own. It was the only sound that cut through the silence and, by comparison, was almost deafening. “A moment? No... a lifetime?” the voice continued.
The Man strained his eyes against their sockets, desperate to glimpse whatever stood there, settling on a vague shadow in his peripheral vision. “It’s all… blurred... I hear you—your pull. You want me to leave...” the voice continued. Desperation surged through the Man as he struggled to respond. He tried to force air from his lungs, but his body betrayed him—the breath caught in his chest, sharp and unyielding, as though he’d been struck. Panic clawed its way to the surface, and he strained to scream but, again, his chest tightened with the effort and no sound escaped.
The voice pressed on, seemingly oblivious to the Man. “Faith? No. I never believed in anything…” the Other said, like a child admitting to some wrongdoing in the face of a stern parent. It began to rain in the meadow, though no clouds could be seen above. The drops fell lazily and, as always, silently.
After a moment, the Other continued, "Please… I’m… scared." The Man sensed the Other pacing anxiously in his peripheral vision. "If I leave, there is no coming back." The Other's voice sounded panicked—almost pleading—as he looked for comfort.
The Man shut his eyes, plunging into a darkness that felt somehow brighter than the endless void looming over the meadow. Every fibre of his being ached with an unbearable yearning to weep. His soul and body screamed silently, desperate to collapse forward and beg at the Other’s feet, to plead for him not to abandon him. Yet, no words could escape his immobilized form, leaving him trapped in a mute agony.
“Still… there’s nothing here for me left...” the Other whispered as if trying to convince himself. A long spell of silence followed, pressing down on The Man's consciousness. When he opened his eyes once more, he watched helplessly as The Other shifted in his peripheral vision, as though turning to listen—perhaps hoping for an unspoken response that The Man could no longer provide.
The Other waited a moment, all the while trembling, before speaking again, “Where will I go?" Their voice cracked, sounding as though they held back tears.
The Man tried to thrash and rip free of his bonds, but the vines tightened once again, their needle-thin thorns piercing his skin and rooting him to his spot. Lightning tore across the sky, and the absence of thunder that should have followed further unsettled him.
The figure drifted closer, still just beyond his field of vision, and began to pace. Their footsteps cracked impossibly loud one moment and faded to a faraway echo the next. Each circuit back and forth brought it nearer, then farther again, movements growing ever more erratic—at times jerking in frantic bursts, at others slowing to a halting stagger. The Man could not say how long this went on; time again blurred into a single, agonized stretch of waiting.
The Other eventually calmed, drifting and settling across from him. The Man, in response to the Other's strained peace, felt a jolt of dread coil through his gut. Raindrops pounded the ground heavily as the storm ramped up around him. At that moment, the Other’s voice came in a soft, almost tender murmur: “Are you… my shepherd?”
Crushing finality resonated through every fibre of the Man’s being. His spine seized, muscles clenched—and the vines around his neck and limbs constricted in eerie unison as if they had been listening. The rain, too, seemed to respond, sheets of water hammering down with renewed force.
Suddenly, for only a heartbeat, the vines slackened just enough, allowing him to shift his head. He seized the opportunity, turning to see the Other at last. Though he had known it all along, the truth was undeniable—it was him. And yet, the Other that stood before him was disheveled and strange, a distorted reflection of what he has known himself to be. Caked in mud, clothes torn, skin lined with cuts and bruises. Overgrown nails and tangled hair framed a gaunt face filled with fear.
The Man followed the Other’s gaze, only to realize these questions had never been for him at all. The Other was staring at something beyond—some presence looming behind the Man’s shoulder he could not see.
Then the Other seemed to nod, not quite contented but in acceptance nonetheless. A particularly heavy raindrop struck the Man’s cheek and—after a moment—he realized it was warm. It was a tear; he was crying.
“Okay. I’ll go…” the Other whispered, solely to himself in resignation. The Other cast a look at the Man—a fleeting expression of pity, familiarity, and understanding—before a sudden, wrenching force seized him. In an instant, he was yanked violently backward, swallowed by the horizon where the darkness bled away into nothingness.
The coiled dread inside struck at the Man, his heart twisting painfully as his body grew cold. Muscles cramped and strained against the iron grip of the vines, each movement a futile struggle against the unyielding restraint. Finally—with no one to hear it—he was allowed to scream. It was a gut-wrenching, high-pitched cry reserved only for those in the midst of searing agony, born from the depths of the Man’s chest and throat until he was breathless. Each sharp intake of breath felt like knives stabbing his lungs, fueling his shriek once more.
He was truly alone now—alone and whole no longer. Long after his throat felt ripped apart and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, he surrendered to the new hollow sensation that enveloped him. Something vital had been torn out, leaving nothing but the vacant flesh, and his thoughts flickered in disarray; fear still gnawed at him, yet slowly faded into the same silent void that surrounded him.
The vines crept ever farther across his skin, winding around his limbs before slithering into his mouth, nose, and ears. They tore at his flesh, dragging him slowly into the damp earth. Though his nerves screamed in protest, he had neither voice nor will to make it known.
Attempting to think, to recall why he was there or even who he was, yielded nothing as coherent thought slipped away like water through a sieve. Memories scattered, terror dulled, and only the numb awareness of his plight remained. The starless sky offered no solace, the soundless meadow gave no comfort. He felt himself descending deeper, felt tendrils biting into muscle and bone and could not react; he was too far gone to muster even the thought of resistance or mercy.
Eventually, his mind surrendered what little hold it had left on being. The sense of being someone or anything dissolved until he was just an observer—conscious yet empty—as the vines ripped him apart. As the seconds stretched endlessly in his personal, timeless, and soundless eternity, all that remained was the husk.