He walks through the bright fields as if emerging from a dream he didn’t survive. The earth is warm. The sky is kind. Butterflies bloom around him like soft lies, drifting in colours too gentle for a body stitched with hurt. But he keeps moving—slow, deliberate—carrying the quiet truth of someone who has been emptied and is still learning to inhabit the echo that remains. This is what’s left of him: a wounded silhouette, a stubborn pulse, a spirit walking lightly over the ruins of itself, trying to make peace with a world that refuses to notice the blood on his cloth or the weight in his eyes. Still, he walks. And somewhere in the flutter of wings, he hopes to find a version of himself worth returning to.