Thorne drags his rusted dagger through the ash-thick soil, humming a crooked lullaby under his breath. Sleep, sleep, little spark… 'til the maggots bite your heart. Moths flit from the cage of his ribs as shadows ripple around him. He lifts his hollow eyes to the bruise-dark sky. They're waking again, he mutters. Better dig deeper this time. A child’s laugh echoes, distant and wrong.
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