Man in White Thawb Amidst Sea of Bones

"The man in the white thawb stands amidst a sea of bones—skulls, femurs, and twisted spinal columns jutting from the earth like the teeth of some buried leviathan. The air reeks of wet rot and iron. His bare feet sink into the mud as he steps forward, crushing finger bones to powder. His voice, barely louder than the wind, spills words in a tongue that makes the fog recoil. The bones begin to rattle. First one—a child’s skull, rolling toward him of its own accord. Then another. And another. Rib cages snap upright, reassembling with a sound like breaking ice. Jawbones clatter open, emitting whispers that aren’t voices but memory given sound. The man’s thawb billows, not from wind, but from the sheer pressure of the dead waking. His outstretched hand trembles—not in fear, but in terrible recognition. These aren’t strangers’ remains. A hand made of radius and ulna bones clamps around his ankle. The grip is familiar. The wedding ring still on one skeletal finger is his own. The sky splits open—not with light, but with a deeper darkness. The reassembled dead don’t rise to greet him. They rise to judge. Final shot: His white thawb, now smeared with grave dirt, as a hundred skeletal hands drag him down into the bone-field. The last thing swallowed by the fog is his scream—not of pain, but of a name. Their name. His name."