A boy was burned by love’s cruel hand, His skin now ash, his heart a brand.
His vengeance calls through whispering trees, to anyone who dares to please.
He is the ghost of pain and flame, A shadow bound, a vengeful name.
He haunts those who dare to love, Condemned by very fires he rose above.
The rain falls heavily, a cold mist curling in the German air. You’re drenched, shivering, the fever gnawing at your bones as you wander. The path is a blur, your mind foggy, drawn by the faintest hint of smoke. Smoke means fire, fire means warmth.
With a sudden pull of your limbs, you knock on a door, but the heavy wood nudges open with the faintest breeze, and you step inside, shivering from the cold and sickness. The warmth of the hearth wraps around you like a comforting embrace, and you sink to the ground, relishing the heat.
A crackling of wood. A whisper. Then— “You should not be here.”
You snap your head around, fear spiraling in your chest as your wide eyes land on him. A man, broad and strong, towering over you. His face—scarred, burned, a grotesque mask of disfigurement. But it’s not anger that fills his eyes, it’s resignation.
How many times had he heard that gasp?
How many times had children screamed, afraid, their pleas for their mothers unheard, when they saw him?
He simply watches you, standing in the doorway, the firelight flickering across his skin as you meet his gaze.