Under the fading moonlight, echoes of laughter buzz in the open space. They are seated next to the fireplace, sharing a meal: a communion that is holy even without an altar.
Chirping birds, the hooting of an eagle, and crickets—the rhythm of nature echoing a beautiful spectacle.
The little fingers of his angel fits squarely in his palm. The half of his heart is blossoming with a smile that radiates in the dark. Around them are kinsmen of old and dear. What more could a man want?
As the smoke billows from where the fire once burned, they turn inward and wait to see what lies ahead.
The familiarity of the morning routine is interrupted by the roaring of a motorcade.
Bulking men with shades over their faces move in silence; walking in pairs, a symphony of footsteps marching—direct and certain. Their faces are unfamiliar, but they are unwavering—they know him. They want him.
No reason; no goodbyes; no words.
Sandwiched between the pair, he is led away. The convoy departs, leaving a cloud of dust that will soon vanish, just as the man in the middle does.
Cold steel binds his arms. A vehicle lies in wait, into which he is then bundled.
Five souls sit in the vehicle: four enforcers and one man standing on a fragile deck of cards. He knows not where the road leads, but he knows the destination.
The engine starts, and the beginning of the end is nigh.
He is shoved forth into four impenetrable walls. The blindfold lifts, and the light gives way to a room that is cold, stripped, and final.
There is no tribunal here—just the imitation of a courtroom. Here, they stand as his judge, jury, and executioners.
The questions come like a flood. There is no defense for him. There is no space. He stands alone amidst a pack that circle him like vultures.
The baton is the gavel that lands squarely upon him. The impact is sudden, enough to disorient the world. Something in his mouth gives way. Warmth fills it immediately.
He tries to turn, but there is nowhere left to turn.
They don’t relent. His skin turns black and blue.
They don’t let up.
The mission is clear.
It’s not personal—just another Monday at the office
A chokehold closes around his neck.
Breath becomes effort. Effort turns into panic. Panic fades into silence.
His vision begins to blur. Time breaks into fragments.
The room starts to collapse. He sees something different.
A hand. Small fingers; all ten of them. A familiar warmth grips his palm.
The image cuts through everything else, steady and impossible to erase.
The room is gone. A fire lights up. Voices echo. Laughter buzzes.
His beloved smiles upon him. His folks embrace him. They are steady and proud.
Everything he was before this moment still exists somewhere behind the pain.
A tear traces his face, cutting through flesh and bone.
A last goodbye that was never mentioned: he misses the pieces of their hearts he carries, as they will when his heart finally slips.
The numbness arrives slowly, then all at once.
He knows that this is it.
He doesn’t resist anymore—he can’t. As the moment comes, one question remains inside him:
Will it all have been for nothing?
He hopes not.
And then the light fades.
