1 A Hollowness of Three Parts

Dawn was coming. Underneath an empty heaven, a small, wooden structure lay hollow. And it was a hollowness of three parts.

The most obvious part was a desolate, empty presence made up of things that were lacking. If there had been a wind, even a handful of whispers meandering gently through woods, they would have breathed through dew-kissed leaves, danced under emerging light, and followed shadows into receding night. Had there been a hint of life, even a bird or two stirring in their nests, they would have blinked away the night's lingering hold, and filled the dawn with their somber calls. Had there been the tippy-taps of children dallying around, they would have… But no… Of course, there were no children. In fact, there were none of these things. And so, hollow, this place was.

Inside the cabin, a man eased the door close behind him. He trod through the kitchen, along the hallway, and up the stairs. With the ease of a thousand years' experience, or perhaps madness, he navigated the darkness, avoiding greyed tomes and tattered pieces of paper strewn about. Each step was a careful step that wove through the layers of neglect blanketing the floorboards. In doing so, he added a subtle layer to the hollowness, a wrong filling to the emptiness, and a false presence of life.

The third hollowness was not an easy thing to notice. If you linger long enough, you may begin to feel it in the cracks on the old window glass and the wooden floorboards that creaked every now and then. You may feel it in the handful of aging candlesticks barely wavering against the cold. ِAnd you may feel it in the tilted portrait of a woman whose smile faded under the years. Most certainly, however, you will understand it, when you see the man in his room.

His silhouette was dim and dark, and outlined a spareness similar to that of the candles. His long hair betrayed no hue to the light, merely unkempt ashen trails drifting over shoulders of torn skin and protruding bones. He lay there, motionless, cross-legged, and silent, staring up the painting with the distant gaze of a man who had long ago accepted an absolute. 

The third hollowness was his. And it was wider and deeper than any other hollowness. For it was the culmination of many dawns and dusks. And was the requiem for a soul long laying to dust. It was the beating heart of a man, devoid of purpose, and hollow.