I feel the sharp air on my skin… but it is not air.It is the vibration of his harmonica, piercing my bones and every organ like an ancient lament.I watch him play, and the world twists to his notes: blood does not boil—it sings, and each of his movements is an act of creation and destruction at once.
I follow him, like a blind man trusting the hand of his savior.Every step drags me through corridors that change direction, stairs that do not exist, mirrors that devour light.I want to reach him, understand him, save myself… but then everything spins.
My body flips inside out.Skin inverts, my organs twist outward like a grotesque carnival of flesh.I scream, but the voice is not mine.I feel every artery, every muscle, every thought crumbling in a dance of absolute physical horror.
And suddenly… I am elsewhere.An open field stretches under a heavy gray sky.A knife grips my hand, covered in blood I do not recognize as my own.Before me, a man lies motionless on the grass, his neck broken at an impossible angle.Around me… everything is dead.Cows and grass, trees and insects… as if the world forgot life in an instant.
I feel the echo of his harmonica still vibrating in my chest.No doubt: I followed him, I sought him, and he showed me a path I could not understand until this horror.My legs tremble, but I must move.There is no time to think, only to survive and comprehend.Comprehend what I have done… and what I might still destroy.
My daughter whispers again, now laughing and crying, and I wonder if she will ever forgive me… if anyone ever could.The Man with the Harmonica has vanished.And I, with my knife, with my broken body and the world in absolute silence, wonder:
Am I the hero I thought I was… or just another echo of the chaos he tries to contain?