Ding!
The slight tinkling of the visitor bell echoed warmly through the colorful room. The pattered windows glowed a red and orange hue while sounds of voices rang from outside. Eyes scanning, the visitor beheld lifelong work of one man, Wali the Wise. Every yard of paper, ever inch of design, every line, every shape, it all was laboriously handcrafted by roughened hands, outlets of a mind overflowing.
Many wondered why he would spend his life on this odd occupation, but none ever asked him. Wali took his work very seriously, with the utmost care and caution he would calmly explain the difference between Virgin Red and Meridian Red, "It's all in the feeling, you see. These roses here," Wali pointed to the intricate designs on the Virgin Red wallpaper, "really communicate the emotion you seek with love springing forth from each petal."
As a light breeze wafted in behind the visitor, Wali's eyes glanced momentarily before he continued work on the poses on the tiny elephants on his new roll, Desert Breeze. Wali lived hunched over a small wooden desk that was older than most statues in the village. Tucked in the corner of a cramped shop, it was the nexus for every scrap of pure imagination laid out before the visitor's eyes.
He could not believe it. This old man was daft, still working at a time like this. The red and orange glow outside the windows was getting stronger. "It's no use," the visitor shouted, "leave all this and save yourself!" One singular tear rolled down Wali's scarred face. The visitor noticed the myriad of little animals and creatures, all of them happily living on their little planes of existence. Little pages turning to ash.
The visitor pushed the smiling pictures from his head, "Please, Wali! You can start again!" Wali's voice cracked, "Start again?" The visitor pleaded as the room seemed to stretch longer and longer "Wali!" The visitor raced through the mess of rolls, every step pulling Wali further from him. "Wali! Don't do this!" Wali raised his weary head, laden with tears, and collapsed onto his groaning desk as the roof fell through.
The voices outside were screaming and crying as the flames ate away the little town. Crackling, every timber fell, every home lost. Only the lucky ones got to see the love and joy that they will never experience again.
Streaked by burnt coals and worn by battles fought, Grady trudged out of the wreckage, bent low by the weight of a body.
Grady was once an innocent boy. He once only believed in the hope and joy that friends could bring. He once had friends. But he believed these fantasies no more. The world had taken an eye and a heart, leaving behind a burnt husk, hardened by war.
He wanted to believe. He wanted to return to where it all began, return to friends and family. He wanted to laugh and cry once again, to chat and joke. He wanted to be happy again.