Man in White Shirt Amidst Village Ruins

"An ordinary man in a white linen shirt picks his way through the ruins of the village, his clothes unnaturally bright against the decay. The fog curls around him like a living thing, dampening sound—his breath, his footsteps—until the world feels muffled, unreal. Then he sees them: bones. Not arranged, not buried, but scattered like trash. A child’s ribcage. A jawbone, still clenched in a final scream. He staggers back, hands flying to his mouth. The white fabric of his sleeve stains gray where it brushes the dirt. Around him, the village isn’t just dead—it’s been eaten. Doors splintered inward, walls clawed apart from the outside in. And the silence. No birds. No wind. Just his pulse, hammering louder and louder until— A whisper. Not from the bones. From the fog. Close-up: His head whips toward the sound. The camera catches the exact moment his fear turns to something worse—recognition. Because that voice? He knows it. The shot fractures into grainy, shuddering frames. The bones rattle. His white shirt is the only light left in the world."