Man in White Thawb Walking Alone in Ruined Village

"A man in a flowing white thawb walks alone through the ruins of the village, the pristine fabric billowing like a ghost in the stagnant air. His sandals crunch over something brittle—not twigs, but fingers. The fog thickens as he steps forward, revealing more: a ribcage cracked open, a skull staring up from the dirt with empty sockets. He freezes. His breath catches. The white of his robe suddenly feels too bright, too pure for this place—a blasphemy against the decay. The village isn’t just dead; it’s been defiled. Doors hang broken, not from violence, but from something slithering out. The shadows between collapsed walls seem to breathe. Then— A whisper. Not from the bones. From his own throat. His hands fly to his neck in horror. The voice comes again— his words, but not his voice. Something is speaking through him. The camera lingers on the back of his thawb as he runs—the once-white fabric now smeared with handprints that weren’t there before. Final shot: The robe, discarded in the dust, still moving as if worn by an invisible body."