Your torchlight glistens crimson on particles of blood that hover in the air, as if time itself has ceased. The oppressive silence reinforces the sense of wrongness, of a foul deed that has taken place here beyond the taking of one’s life: the robbery of their very essence. The droplets of blood begin to drift, a gruesome pirouette that converges into the silhouette of a body. It is a shadow of what once was a bright soul—now but a mere tormented fraction of their past self.
