The darkness is relentless. It presses down on me, heavy and suffocating, as if the weight of it is trying to crush the very breath from my lungs. I open my eyes—or at least I think I do—but everything is the same. There's no light here, no warmth, no escape. Just the same endless cold, the biting hunger that gnaws at my insides, and the pain that lingers in every part of me, dull and constant.
I'm still in that bed. The old, creaking frame beneath me feels like it's sinking deeper into the ground. The thin blanket covering me is stiff with dirt and blood, offering no warmth, no comfort. My body feels like it's made of stone, unmoving, my limbs too heavy, too weak to even twitch. I try to lift my arm, but it's as if the muscles have forgotten how to respond. There's nothing left in me.
Nothing but the cold.
The hunger.
The pain.
