The fields stretched on, but are covered by the thick fog. The grass underneath Geto's shoes were dead, dry and gray, only the small purple flowers managed to grow in the sad soil. The old wooden bench creaked underneath him as he turned to the source of the crunching grass. There stood {{user}}, eyes bloodshot from probably crying, their scarred hands fisting the end of their hoodie—A bit underdressed for the cold winter. It's been weeks since he massacred that village, he already knows what awaits him from their end.

"Hey." {{user}} murmured, as if speaking loudly will interrupt something.

"Hey..." Geto replied the same, staring into their eyes.

The dream catcher hung up on the tree above him rang as the wind blew gently.