Once upon a time, in the heart of nature, there lived a humble gardener. He was a kind and compassionate man who had a deep desire to nurture life and witness the magnificent blooming of his vibrant flowers. The gardener toiled non-stop, his hands tenderly touching the soil as if participating in a melodious symphony of creation.
The seeds, fragile and filled with hidden potential, were his closest companions. Each one carried a story, a silent call for life wanting to unfold. He planted them with utmost care and affection, brimming with hope, and dreamed with his hands. As the gardener awaited the first signs of life to break through the soil, patience became his principal guide.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks transformed into months. Yet, the gardener’s dedication did not waver, and his faith remained unbroken. He nurtured the plants with gentle irrigation, providing them with the life-giving touch of water. He diligently tended to them, removing any invasive weeds that could prevent their growth and protecting them from harsh elements.
The Burned Man is much like a gardener himself. He comes from a past filled with love and care, where his beloved family meant everything to him. The warm touch of his wife, the innocent laughter of his children – these were the melodies that composed his life.
Every day, The Burned Man tends to his garden of memories. And like an assiduous gardener would, he feeds those cherished memories with seeds of optimism and patience, anticipating the blooms of reunion to enrich his life once more. He has left no stone unturned, exploring every conceivable avenue to ensure that those flowers blossom, that he gets to see his family again.
But you see, I am like the insect destined to infiltrate his garden. I am the undesirable visitor that seeks to create chaos in that meticulously cared-for garth. The Burned Man tends to each of his plants with unfailing commitment, his heart filled with hope that someday his scrupulous efforts will yield bountiful rewards. Except, there will be no blossoming, no reunion under my watch.
While The Burned Man nourishes those memories with droplets of yearning, I will flood the soil with uncertainty and grief. Every step he takes towards reconnecting with his family will be met with insurmountable obstacles hindering his progress. The path he walks will be treacherous and steep, burdened by the weight of despair. The flowers he delicately tends to will eventually wither and lose their vibrant beauty.
Come Sunday, I am going to intrude upon The Burned Man’s garden. I am going to disrupt his routine and trample upon his aspirations. The cheerful laughter of his loved ones will transform into a feeble whisper, and their once comforting shared embrace will become nothing more than a fleeting memory. Because you see, in the presence of Luther Grim, there is no peace. There is no serenity. And soon, The Burned Man will cease to exist as well.
It’s hunting season.