Salt + Iron

A tiny man walks into the afterlife.

The tiny man steps forward,

shoes tapping against a floor

that isn’t there.

He peers ahead—nothing.

Looks back—less than that.

Not light, not dark.

Not warmth, not cold.

Not silence, but no sound.

His hands are too long for his body.

His fingers curl like dead leaves.

His eyes are black buttons,

sewn too tight into his face.

He moves like a shadow

that doesn’t know where to rest.

A breeze without wind moves past.

It is not a voice,

but it speaks.

The tiny man listens.

Not with ears.

Not with a mind.

Just listens.

And then—

a mouth opens.

Lips like a doorway,

teeth like a fence,

breath warm and waiting.

The tiny man does not hesitate.

He bends his knees.

Leaps.

Swallowed whole.

Somewhere, a normal-sized man

wakes up,

heart pounding,

breath short,

the taste of salt and iron on his tongue.