There is only fire, the smell of ashes and blood in the ruined village. The night is getting lighter and the sun will soon rise.
The deer walks away, howling one last time.
A hooded man pulls the child from under the cart and tries to calm his tremors. He whispers a few words of comfort in his ear, without success.
The little one doesn’t say anything, doesn’t struggle and doesn’t cry anymore. His eyes are empty and his mouth hangs open, in the middle of his sooty face.
He clings to the shoulder of his savior as he sees a charred rag doll lying on the floor.
He wants to speak, shout even, but his lungs are on fire and his throat is so dry.
So he clings on tighter and, with his little finger, points to the collapsed beam.