The year is 1692 and Salem is ablaze with fear. The witch trials have turned neighbor against neighbor, scripture against mercy. Tonight the town gathers in the square, their faces lit by the fire that consumes truth as easily as timber. You stand at the edge of the crowd, your hood pulled low, the acrid smoke clawing at your lungs.

Your friend is bound to the stake, her eyes wide not with guilt but with disbelief. She was no witch, no conjurer of spirits, no keeper of forbidden knowledge. Yet the flames lick higher, eager to claim her as proof of the town's righteousness.

The magistrates watch with grim satisfaction, their words of scripture carried on the wind like judgment itself. Around you, neighbors -people you once trusted- cheer as if this cruelty were satisfaction. You know the truth but truth has no place here.

The fire crackles louder, and in its roar you hear the silence of every secret you must keep. You cannot speak. You cannot move. You can only witness.