When they marched the prisoners in, they told them to dance. No one did. They stood still as stone, too weak to move a muscle, too scared to move an inch. It was the wind that did a waltz—spinning through the still courtyard, stirring up the leaves and ruffling the hair of the statues standing in the cold.
When they took the prisoners to dinner, they told the men to sing. No one did. Forks rose and fell, eerily silent, attached to automatons. They didn’t have the soul to sing, nor the strength to. It was the wind that sang a lilting melody—something whistled and hollow. Passionless, yet with more soul than any hostage could procure. To the captors, it sounded like obedience. To the captive, it sounded like resignation.
When they took the prisoners to the yard, they told the men to play. No one did. They spent their hour of superficial freedom picturing home, work, normalcy. Their faces remained carefully blank. It was the wind that played with deflated balls, rolling them to and fro, winding itself between the real world and the remembered ones and rejoicing all the while.
When they brought the prisoners to the gallows, they told the men to pray. No one did. They did not beg; they did not thank. They had no faith left to cling to. It was the wind that whispered to the world, Save these souls, and let them find release. It was the wind that carried the soldiers’ letters home, telling their families, I’m sorry. All I could do was be human when they couldn’t be so themselves.
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