The deafening crack of explosions mingled with relentless gunfire and screams that tore through the night. Flames devoured the buildings around them, turning the darkness into a hellish glow. Acrid smoke scorched the preschool boy's lungs, stinging his eyes until tears spilled down his cheeks.
"Mom, I'm scared…" His small hands clutched her shirt, knuckles white and trembling.
Her grip tightened around him as she ran, breath shallow, chest heaving. "It's okay. It's okay," she whispered, her desperate voice barely audible against the chaos.
He raised his tear-streaked face, searching her exhausted, sweat-slick features. "Where's Daddy?"
"Don't worry about him—AH!"
A thunderous blast split the air. The ground heaved beneath them, pitching them forward. Pain bloomed across his body as he hit the dirt, the taste of ash and burning earth flooding his mouth.
"M… Mommy…" His body shook as he stirred.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she gasped, scrambling to her feet. She scooped him up and ran—limping, breath ragged—toward the shadows of a half-collapsed wall.
He buried his face against her chest, ears ringing from the endless roar, pain flaring through every limb. "Mommy…"
The cadence of boots thundered closer. Her breath hitched, and she spun into a narrow alley. A door gave way beneath her shove—
—but inside, the world was no kinder.
Corpses sprawled across the floor, blood pooling into dark, glistening patches that caught the firelight.
"W-what happened to them?" His voice cracked, tiny and terrified.
She swallowed hard, eyes darting around for somewhere, anywhere, to hide. There was none.
Settling him down, she knelt and cupped his face, hands trembling. "Let's play a game, sweetheart."
His brows furrowed. "A game? Now?"
With labored gasps, she dipped her hands into the still-warm blood and smeared it across his cheeks, his clothes. The coppery scent stung his nose, making his stomach churn.
"Whatever happens," she whispered, forcing her voice steady, "don't move. Pretend to sleep."
"Mom, I'm scared!" He clung to her trembling fingers, slick with red. Tears streaked down his cheeks.
The boots outside pounded closer. Louder. Almost here.
She pressed him down among the fallen bodies, her tears falling onto his skin. Her whisper cracked. "Don't move. Stay alive. Don't die. I'll come back."
She leaned down and kissed his forehead. "I love you."
"Mom!" he cried as she tore herself free and rushed toward the door.
He froze, staring after her in disbelief. Why are you leaving me…?
Gunfire erupted. He flinched and dropped flat, squeezing his eyes shut.
Mom, take me with you… I'm scared!
His chest heaved, the scream trapped in his throat.
I'll be good… please don't leave me…
He bit down hard until the taste of iron filled his mouth.
The door swung open with a violent bang. Boots pounded across the floor, splintering wood, overturning what little remained.
A step halted beside him. Something heavy pressed into his side, rolling him over—he didn't dare breathe. A hard prod jabbed his cheek. His lungs screamed for air; his eyes burned under the weight of being watched.
"This one's clear!"
"It's clear!"
"Let's move!"
When the footsteps finally receded, he released a shuddering breath that clawed at his throat. Silence swallowed the house, broken only by the crackle of distant fire and the low rumble of explosions.
He didn't move. Couldn't.
Tears slipped down his face, soaking into the blood beneath his cheek.
Mom, please come back. Please pick me up…
—
His eyes snapped open to a pale ceiling. Morning light seeped weakly through the shattered roof.
I fell asleep while crying…
His body felt heavy, his skin tacky with the coppery stench of dried blood. The gunfire, explosions, and screams were gone. Only silence remained.
He pushed himself upright, sluggish and unsteady, scanning the room. The blood had turned dark, flaking black against the floorboards. The bodies around him were still, scattered in grotesque stillness.
"Mom?" His small voice cracked in the emptiness.
A heavy quiet met his words.
Wobbling to his feet, he staggered among the bodies toward the doorway and pushed it open. The village beyond was no different—houses gutted by fire, roofs collapsed, smoke curling lazily into the morning sky. Blackened beams jutted like broken bones, and the air reeked of ash and char.
He stepped out barefoot onto the scorched earth, legs trembling, stomach twisting in hunger and fear.
"Mom?" His voice echoed down the empty street, answered only by the creak of a wind-shaken shutter.
Then he froze.
A patch of fabric peeked out from beneath a fallen beam—the same dress his mother had worn last night.
He stumbled forward, breath hitching. The wood was still warm, smoke rising above. "Oh, no…"
"I'll get you out…."
His small hands pried at the rubble, heat biting into his skin, but he didn't care.
When the beam finally shifted, her face came into view—half-buried, eyes half-open, her back riddled with dark, dried holes.
He dropped to his knees. "Mommy...?"
His trembling hands gripped her shoulders, shaking her stiff form. Tears streaked his cheeks as he pressed his face against her.
"Mommy, please wake up! Please…"
He knew what death meant.
When his puppy died, it never came back—no matter how many times he called, no matter how much he begged.
And now… it was the same.
"Mom… please don't leave me…" He curled against her side, clutching her unmoving arm, sobbing until his throat burned.
The crunch of boots on charred earth snapped him upright. His breath hitched; his heart slammed in his chest. He forced himself back down, pressing into his mother's body, squeezing his eyes shut.
Pretend to sleep. Pretend to sleep. Pretend to sleep.
The footsteps halted just before him. He held his breath.
"Wake up, kid." A rough voice cut through the silence.
He didn't move, clinging to his mother's last words.
"I heard you crying," the man said, prodding him with his boot. "Stop acting. I know you're alive."
His lungs tightened—out of breath, but he stayed frozen.
A metallic click answered him. "I'll shoot you if you don't wake up."
"Boss, are you serious?!" another voice protested. "He's just a kid!"
"Orders are orders," the first man said flatly.
The boy's eyes fluttered open. His whole body shook as he slowly pushed himself upright. He blinked through tears at the strangers looming above him. Their uniforms were different—not the same as the men from last night, the ones who set the houses on fire and hurt everyone.
"Please… don't shoot me." His voice shook, tears streaking down his cheeks. "I… I want to live."
The older man tilted his head. "And why is that?"
He wiped his eyes with the back of his hands, sniffling. "Mommy told me to stay alive…"
The other man crouched, offering a faint smile. "It's alright, kid. You don't have to be afraid. We're not the ones who did this."
The older man eventually lowered his gun. "How old are you?"
"…I'm five."
A slow breath escaped the old man. "Listen," he bent slightly until their eyes met. "If you want to live, you can come with us. But understand this—your life won't ever be the same. You'll grow up where blood spills, on battlefields like this one."
He straightened, his shadow stretching over the boy. "Or you can stay here and wait for the soldiers to return. When they do, they won't leave you breathing."
The boy's small chest heaved, his sobs thin and broken. He turned toward his mother's body, stiff and pale in the dirt. His fingers twitched as if to reach her, but they only curled helplessly in his lap.
At last, he looked up at the old man. "If I come with you, could you help me bury my mom?"
The man's eyes flickered—just a moment's pause—before he nodded. "Aye. We'll give her a grave."
The man extended his hand. The boy hesitated, then placed his small one in it.
And the world went white.
The loud squawking of birds and the steady hum of cicadas stirred Lucien awake; the scent of petrichor stung his nostrils. The blurred world sharpened into the jagged outline of the cave ceiling.
"…The same dream," he murmured.
Whenever wounds dragged him into unconsciousness, the dream—his mother telling him to stay alive—haunted him. Yet no matter how often it replayed, her face remained a haze. And now, even the old man's and the deputy's features were starting to fade.
Is this world messing with my memory?
A weary sigh escaped him. He raised a hand to his forehead, brushing against something damp. Bringing it into view, pale ivory clung to his fingers—Roschella's dress.
That's right… Roschella…
He turned his head—and froze.
Her face was inches away.