In the dark of the night, the man herds children to the ruins.

Young souls are such sharp, tart things. They are so full of light I wonder if it’d tear my fragile body apart. But in an instant, they dissipate within me.

When I pull, at first they fight and struggle but slowly their bodies go limp as I cut their strings. They stand there, blank and listless as the man walks them back home.

The moonlight is strangely harsh on the man’s face, adding wrinkles and furrows.

For a little while, my placations work. I soothe his conscience with treasures and relics I had consumed over the eons but I know I have little time. With each passing day, he seems to grow older and older.

His conscience is catching up with him and he’s losing the race.