Man in White Thawb Standing in Valley of Bones

"The man in the white thawb stands in the valley of bones, his arms raised to the bleeding sky. Above him, the clouds tear open—not with light, but with a sickly phosphorescent glow. From the rift, tormented souls come screaming downward like falling stars, each one a streak of blue-white fire. The bones begin to tremble as the spirits collide with them. Skulls snap upward with jaws unhinged, drinking in the screaming souls. Rib cages rattle as spectral light pours between the bars. The ground itself heaves as skeletal hands claw upward, grasping at the descending spirits like beggars catching rain. But something is wrong. The souls don't settle peacefully into their bones. They thrash. They burn. The skeletons don't stand—they convulse, jerking like marionettes with tangled strings. Their eye sockets blaze with unnatural fire, casting jagged shadows across the ruins. The man staggers back as the reanimated dead turn toward him—not with gratitude, but with the furious hunger of souls forced back into rotting flesh against their will. The last spirit falls—not into bones, but into the man's open mouth. His white thawb ignites with the same ghostly fire as he drops to his knees, screaming in a chorus of stolen voices. Final shot: The bone-field stands motionless once more. The man's smoldering thawb lies empty in the dirt. And high above, the rift in the sky begins—slowly, terribly—to widen."