An elderly woman walked along the winding path of her small village, her arms cradling a bundle of wildflowers. Each step tapped gently against the stone as she passed vendors: men with soft eyes, women with tired laughs, and children darting between stalls. They paused to greet her with reverent bows.
âMorning, Obaa-san!â She returned each greeting with a gentle nod and a smile shaped by decades of laughter. âBless you, children.â
Crimson leaves swirled through beams of morning light as they danced between the wooden rooftops. The wind moved through windchimes strung above porches, their gentle notes drifting like whispers from a simpler world. Somewhere nearby, a lute hummed faintly from a shop. What a lovely day, she thought, her fingers tightening slightly around the stems of lavender and rosemary. It was a day for stew, a day for laughter, a day for sticky fingers and second helpings.
She reached her home, a modest structure tucked between the villageâs oldest stones. Sliding open the door, she was greeted by the warmth of her own life: bouquets arranged like charms of protection, jars lined neatly on shelves, and the aroma of cedarwood clinging to the walls. Time to wake the children, she mused with a grin. No, let me cook first. They will be hungry. A feast, she decided, her smile widening.
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She could already hear their footsteps rushing down the hall, their voices as familiar as her own breath.
âNana! Nana! Did you get flowers again?â
âOnly the best kind,â she would always reply.
Her feet padded softly across the wooden floor, and her memories followed close behind. Their laughter filled the rooms before her footsteps ever could. She pictured little faces covered in crumbs and wonder, bright eyes, missing teeth, messy hair, and even louder dreams.
âYour food is the best in the whole world, Nana!â
The echo of that voice made her chest rise with joy. She chuckled softly and stepped toward the hallway, still smiling, still whole. She opened the door, and the world shattered.
Her breath seized, and her knees buckled beneath her. The room was bathed in red. Walls were stained, limbs twisted unnaturally, and heads had shattered like porcelain dolls. The scent of blood invaded her nose, iron and decay mixing with the rosemary still clutched in her hands. She stumbled forward, collapsing under the weight of agony. Her trembling fingers reached out; they were still warm, still small, still hers. Yet they were no longer alive. Her scream tore from her chest, raw and soul-shredding, and pain filled the silence where joy had once lived. Everything good, everything tender, had been torn from her in a single instant.
Except one.
In the centre of it all sat her youngest. Bathed in blood with his eyes wide open.