Martha made her way back toward the village entrance where the Elder was sitting on a wooden chair, waiting.
Every step she took felt like she was treading on broken glass. How couldn't it? She was nervous. She was about to speak with the man who killed her only son in cold blood.
Her heart was filled with grief and fury, but she would not cry. She kept her head low and her movements relatively quick as she made her way to him.
When he was in sight, she noticed he looked remarkably serene, his hands resting on his knees as he watched the dirt road. When he spotted Martha, he offered a smile that was neighbourly-warm and yet utterly chilling.
"Martha," he greeted her. "A tragic day, isn't it? I trust you've found some peace in your prayers."
Martha felt a scream clawing at the back of her throat. This man who had butchered her son not even thirty minutes ago, now he spoke to her as if they were discussing the weather over tea.
