He stared wide-eyed. He was paralysed with fear. Faces appeared in the darkness in between inconsistent, ephemeral flashes of lightning. The bare limbs reached out to him as the ancient oak giants seemed to be moving closer, surrounding him until they crushed him. His terror was suffocating him, refusing to let him think as his mind screamed at him to run. But he couldn’t. They were getting closer; time was running out – vital time. His heart was pounding in his ears, a lump forming in his throat as his breath faltered. He was going to die, he was sure of it. The terror clawed at his nerve, ripping into his diminishing hope and tearing at his strength. It would not be long before they got him. It would not be long before they ended it all. After so many years of running he suddenly felt hopeless, and hopelessly alone. A cold bead of sweat ran down his flushed face and passed his quivering lips as they exhaled a thick white cloud of warm breath. It was his life draining from him, bit-by-bit; breath-by-breath. As a teardrop lost its grip on his chin and started to fall past his heavily panting chest, a deep roar filled the dead, black air. It had found him.