The word is fire.
Fire through the alleyways, through the doors and windows, over the roofs. Nothing escapes. A vast, hungry, expanding conflagration that sweeps and scours the village, cares not for innocence or guilt or age. When it ends. All that is left is you. Standing in a smoking black circle where once those you had known and passed the time of day with had been.
A boy.
A smoking ruin, and more shame and guilt than any child should ever have to carry.
You are running but you are not running fast enough.
You are running.
Running.