The rain had stopped.
The ground was still wet, darkened by the storm, but the sky had cleared as if nothing had happened. Sunlight slipped through the clouds, touching the village roofs, the trees, the paths—soft and ordinary.
The world had returned to normal.
The boy had not.
He sat where he had been all night, unmoving, his small body facing the still forms of his parents. The blood that once stained the floor had already been washed away by the rain, carried into the earth like it had never existed. There was no mark left behind—no proof of what the night had taken.
Life was moving forward.
Only his time had stopped.
He could not remember the night clearly. Not the screams, not the faces.
Only the weight remained—heavy, crushing, pressed against his chest like something invisible refusing to lift.
The house stood exactly as it always had, yet it no longer felt like a home. Broken objects lay scattered, the oil lamp had burned out, and empty spaces screamed louder than anything that had been destroyed. Everything was familiar—and everything was wrong.
Outside, footsteps passed. Voices spoke. Laughter returned.
People walked by as if he did not exist. As if the bodies in front of him were not there. As if a family had not been erased in the dark.
Temple bells began to ring in the distance—steady, practiced, calm. The sound drifted through the air, announcing a new morning, a new beginning.
He remained seated.
Then something slipped from his clothes and fell softly to the floor.
The sound was small, but it broke the stillness.
For the first time since dawn, the boy moved.
He looked down and saw it—a ring, worn and simple. His fingers trembled as he picked it up. His mother's last gift. He stared at it for a long moment, not understanding why his chest hurt more when he held it.
Slowly, he looked around.
The village was awake. The same people who had turned against his family were walking freely, speaking to one another, continuing their lives. No fear. No guilt. No sorrow.
That was when he understood.
No one was sorry.
The anger rose quietly, deep inside him—thick, burning, and unfamiliar. He did not ask why they had done this. He did not ask who had ordered it. He already knew there would be no answers.
Only silence.
He stood.
With hands that felt too small for what he was about to do, he tried to move his parents' bodies. Alone. It took time—far more than it should have. His strength failed him again and again, but he did not stop.
When the sun climbed higher, he reached the shore.
He gathered dry wood with shaking hands. It took effort. It took pain. And when the fire finally caught, its flames rose slowly, consuming what was left of the only life he had ever known.
He did not cry.
He did not scream.
He watched the fire with empty eyes, anger burning behind them, memories clashing with the heat. His lips moved, questions spilling out in a voice that no longer sounded like a child's.
"Why us?"
"What did we do?"
"We helped them… trusted them… so why?"
"Who were they?"
"And that shadow—what was it?"
Each question made his voice darker. Sharper.
Still, no tears came.
The emotions did not explode—they drained away, leaving something cold behind. Something quiet. Something growing.
There were no vows.
No promises of revenge.
Only a look that spoke of a future already changing.
From a distance, hidden behind the trees, a priest watched the boy standing before the fire. His expression was unreadable, his hands tightening around the staff he carried.
Some tragedies do not end with screams.
Some begin in silence.
And this one was far from over.