Step.

The man glances to the left. He sees the place with forests and hills, with the river running under the bridge and birds softly calling from their treetop homes. He should not be able to see this place. He looks away.

Step.

He looks to the right. A shell of a place stands, barely. Black wooden beams and occasional brickwork work a semblance of order in the wreckage. The chaos of this place is over, yet unending. The shell is still, yet threatens to topple anew, leaving only a shell of a shell.

Step.

In the shell of a place stands the shell of a person. He cannot tell from the remains who lies in the shell of a place. He does not want to know.

Step.

A fragment of a fragment of glass glides noiselessly to a stop at his feet. He halts his walk for a moment, gazing up at where a tower block once stood, owning the skies and stealing the clouds from the residents of the city.

Glass is still falling, piece by piece, from the metal struts that refuse to fall to the ground, unaware that the building they once held fell long ago.

He leans down, and lifts the fragment of a fragment. It is sharp, but he does not feel the soft bite as the fragment fights against his grip.

Step.

He sees a single drop of drop of blood fall from where he holds the glass. He has already forgotten why he picked it up. He drops the red stained shard to the floor. It does not shatter further, but rolls harmlessly away, still once again.

Step.

He hears an engine in the distance. A motor, still spinning long after all machines lost that right. He disapproves of this rude awakening from the quiet discord he walks in.

Far behind him, a thick layer of dust coats the black van that slowly rolls down the long hill and into the city. Plumes of grey smoke escape the vehicle, and join the ash clouds in the sky. The engine is just as disappointed in its renewed life as the man is.

Step.

The sound of motors moves closer now. The man is aware of them behind him, though he does not look around. He quickens his pace, tired muscles straining to carry a man who shouldn’t be.

Step.

The van passes the place with forests and hills. He does not turn around. The people in the van do not look away.

Step.

There is a footprint in the ashen Earth. It is larger than average, but the shoe that made the imprint was well worn. It is recent, and even now a light breeze threatens to erase the footprint and its memory. The man walks on.

A tyre rolls across the footprint, and then comes to a stop. Where once there was a larger than average footprint in the ash, now there are only tyre tracks. The irony of this erasure is lost on the masked men who step out of the van.

Step.

A woman clad in black garments takes twelve steps from the black van, and then lays one knee upon the ground. Her knee is soon coated in a fine coat of ash and dust. This ground has been undisturbed for either aeons or seconds. Her comrades line up beside her.

Step.

A noise disturbs all that is undisturbed in this silent scene. A single crack rings out among the ashes, and with its echo, birds fly and rubble is loosened from its earthen grasp.

Step.

The man looks down towards his pallid grey shirt. There is a hole in it he does not remember making. The day is warm, so he does not complain at the cooling breeze. From this hole in his shirt, a sweet crimson darkens the colour of his shirt. He chooses not to understand. He begins to run.

Step.

The echoes of a single bullet have not yet died before more follow. Where once flew one, a family of steel now whips through the air, disturbing its slumber.

Step.

Ignoring his shirt, with a second hole below the first, a man glances at a familiar scene. The husks of once people stand idle in the street, frozen in their final moments. The stone-like shapes tell the story of a woman, gazing up into the sky as two small beings cower below.

The man does not falter.

Step.

The dying man stops. Below him stretches out an infinite space of blue and black. Dark waves crash against the sudden cliff face, and the forms of unaffected ocean life flicker aimlessly below.

Behind him, the sound of gunfire leaves no space for echoes.

The man looks down, noticing now that his shirt is ruined, and filled with unsightly holes. He is certain his shirt is not red, and yet his eyes tell him otherwise.

He glances back, gazing at the kneeling woman and her comrades. He looks down, towards the infinite nothing below. He finally accepts. He finally regrets. He looks down again.

Step.