Last week I had a dream.

I found myself in a dim basement, the air thick with dust and the scent of something long forgotten. On the ground lay a few carbonized fragments. I didn’t know what they had once been, yet their very presence proved they had existed, though not in their original form, but scorched and altered by some long-past catastrophe.

Still, I felt an unexpected happiness rise within me. I held the remains gently, almost reverently, eager to bring them back into the world above and share the discovery with others.

But just as I turned to leave, the silence broke. The door at the top of the stairs creaked open.

Heavy footsteps began descending.

A group of men emerged from the stairwell, their silhouettes growing larger with each step. Their appearance was terrifying, human bodies crowned with the heads of bears, their gaze fixed on me with a mute, primal authority. The leader stepped forward, moving steadily toward me.

I could not move.

I stood frozen, clutching the burnt fragments to my chest, my mind trapped between disbelief and terror. In that moment, an overwhelming thought filled me: I would rather die than be mistreated by whatever they were.

The pressure of the scene became unbearable. My strength gave way, I collapsed and woke up.