Wesley’s bare feet sifted through the morning grass, cooling dew clinging to his ankles. The lingering moisture from the rain’s fog left the air heavy, and as Wesley paced through the village’s fields, his shoulders slouched with an unsettlingly heaviness.

The fields seemed to wilt with woe: the type of sorrow that held mysterious depth, not often uncovered. The trees wallowed in their roots, twisted and broken, their skeletal arms reaching for something unattainable. Wesley’s eyes narrowed into slits. Why did the fields look so strange today?

The sharp stillness of solitude surrounded Wesley in a tight embrace. He was alone.

Then—

A distasteful scent glided in the breeze. Burnt flesh.

Wesley’s brain stuttered in confusion, barely conscious before his foot caught on fabric. Something strange loomed at his feet.

No… it can’t be… NO!

With sobs caught in his throat, Wesley slowly pulled his gaze downwards. Beneath him, laid two unblinking, unfeeling eyes.

His own eyes.

The dead body was his.

“Wesley.” A voice, with a sweet lilt, emerged from darkness, echoing with strange intensity.

“Wesley, wake up.”

W e s l e y

. . . . . . . . .

Your eyes flash open.

The sky, too pale, glares below at you… and you wake up slowly… rubbing your head with a strange smile.

Grass pokes at your side.

The bony trees wave goodbye.

But the air tastes subtly like smoke, and when you inhale, it clings to your chest with familiarity—Home, she whispers.