They didn’t tell him he’d be seeing things.
They didn’t tell him how cold he’d be, or how alone, or how desperately he’d miss even the smallest comforts. Like a hue that wasn’t on the scale of dirty-white to sort-of-gray.
Maybe he was dying.
Was this how it would be?
If he could.
They didn’t tell him he’d be unable to speak. Or that the voice he’d make would go unheard, unseen, unnoticed.
The stag was still there.
Continue reading at Na’ama Yehuda