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85 Scars of the Soul Ahsan Zia M2F5 In an empty forest, twisted trees clawed at the sky, their branches grasping as if they sought to escape a forgotten relic. A lost wind whistled dark secrets; it seemed to weigh on the house, as if its dust was about to burst open. Over the walls, a kind of ivy crept, and broken windows stared with hollow eyes—the house seemed to wait for him. He went in. It was cold. The air was heavy with rot and metal, like blood or rust. Every step he took echoed in silence. It was as if the people had abandoned the house a long time ago, and still, it seemed almost alive. The walls appeared to be watching him. He took another step forward, leaving faint impressions in the dust. Thick silence. At the end of the hall was a cracked door. He walked through it, and the floor groaned beneath him. In the center of the room: an old wooden box on a pedestal. The box looked both old and new at once. Maybe he was supposed to be here. His heart was pounding. Shadows moved at the edges of his line of sight. A dark energy spread through him. He felt some- thing nibbling at his mind. He could never turn back. He had emerged. His hand trembled as he reached for the box. A cold voice warned, “Don’t.” He stepped back, turned around—but no one was there. The door shut. Panic welled as the walls seemed to close in on him. Shadows darkened, shifting like living smoke. His hand hovered over the box, his willpower ebbing. He could not step back. He opened it. Inside the box was a soiled piece of paper. Clear handwriting read: You shouldn’t have come back. A cold shiver ran down his spine. Impossible. He hadn’t written this or been here in years. Yet he read the jagged words: It was always you. The house groaned, vibrating. Shadows slid like smoke, twisting into dark shapes with glowing eyes. A figure emerged from the shadows, as if darkness had taken form. “Welcome back,” the hollow voice said. “You’ve always been here. You’ll never leave.” He felt part of his soul tear away. Shadows engulfed him. The room shrank into darkness. That was ridiculous. The house, box, and note didn’t draw him in—he’d always been here. No one freed him from the house. Each time he believed that he could run, he returned. The house was within him, waiting, as always. “You’ve caught on, haven’t you? This house wants you here and not to leave. You’re part of it now, but you have a choice.” The voice was louder this time. His heart beat became faster. What choice? Towards the door, where eyes glowed from the darkness of the room, the voice continued: “Stay and be with us forever. Or go and remember nothing. Your memories—lost. You will be free as the wind, but not yourself. You will forget this place.” The door materialized. He could go home but would have to leave behind his past. He could not leave and stay himself at the same time. Shadows pushed him to stay, but a small voice within urged him forward. He stepped towards the door. “You will never be whole again!” The voice cried out, but he chose to ignore it. His hand trembled as it grasped the doorknob. As his fingers touched it, the universe unraveled. The house, forest, and shadows vanished as reality fell apart. The house did not disappear by his will—it was the bond binding him to it that broke. The house, the darkness, and the contorted figure evaporated in a final flash of light. The air was fresh and quiet, as it should be, in the forest. He walked into sunlight, and everything faded. Both the door and the house had vanished. He did not know where the house was. All he knew was that whatever held him had snapped. He had made his choice. He had changed and was free. As he walked away from his old home, he realized real freedom meant leaving and never looking back. Time doesn’t always heal; it teaches you how to bear the weight of your burdens with quiet strength. Over time, the scars blend seamlessly into your skin, the wounds become important chapters in your story, and the pain gradually fades into silence, forgetting your name.