Avarice Without End

In the darkness, there sits a man, hunched over a small, tattered purse. His fingers, long and skeletal, hovering only just above it, twitching with the hesitation of someone both desperate and afraid. His eyes, sunken deep into a face carved by time and neglect, never leave the object. He watches it as if expecting it to move, to whisper some secret meant only for him. But the purse does nothing. It simply sits there, as lifeless as the hands that once carried it.

His suit, which might have once turned heads in lavish halls, now clings to his frame in tattered submission. The fine silk has frayed into rags, and the dirt, pressed into every thread, has made the fabric indistinguishable from his own skin. The weight of years has stolen the color from his hair, leaving behind strands as thin as cobwebs, clinging to his scalp like the last remnants of a forgotten life.

How long has he been here? The room around him is void of time, a cavern of shadows where light dares not intrude. Dust coats every surface, thick enough to be mistaken for the sand of a long-dead land. His skin, cracked and hardened, resembles old parchment, as if he himself has become part of this place, an artifact of decay.

Still, his eyes remain fixed on the purse. What does he see in it? What does he expect? His lips part slightly, but no words come. Perhaps he has forgotten how to speak, or perhaps the silence has swallowed his voice whole.

And yet, he waits. Whether for salvation or damnation, even he does not know.

The man does not blink. His breath is shallow, barely there, as if he fears that even the smallest motion might disturb the silence, might break the spell that holds him in place. His fingers hover, trembling above the purse, not from cold, nor from exhaustion, but from something deeper, something worn into his very bones. A hesitation. A reverence. A fear.

The purse itself is unremarkable. Small, old, its once fine leather cracked like the skin of a long forgotten corpse. The clasp, rusted and weak, barely holds together, as if it, too, has waited an eternity to be opened. Dust clings to its surface in thick layers, undisturbed for what could be years, decades, long enough for time to forget it. And yet, he has not.

His stomach, long past the point of hunger, twists in on itself, gnawing at nothing. The feeling has become a companion, a constant ache he no longer truly notices. His body has been hollowed by time, by neglect, by whatever cruel fate left him here in the dark with nothing but this object. His once-proud frame, tall and strong, has withered, his skin hanging loose over sharp bones. His hands, once steady and sure, are now thin and claw-like, dirt trapped deep beneath cracked nails.

And still, he does not touch the purse.

He only watches.

His mind, though fragile and frayed, flickers with memory, or something close to it. He remembers color, though the world has long since drained of it. He remembers voices, though now, only silence greets him. He remembers a name, his name, but it is just beyond reach, swallowed by the same void that has taken everything else.

But the purse. The purse remains.

There is something inside it. He knows this. He has always known this. And yet, he has never opened it. Not once.

Why?

The question gnaws at him, but he has no answer. Or perhaps, he does, but he cannot bear to face it.

Something moves in the darkness. Not in the room, not in the world around him, but inside him. A whisper, a tug at the edges of his mind.

The whisper is not a sound. It is not a voice, nor a breath, nor a presence he can name. It is something deeper, something old, something woven into the marrow of his bones. It does not ask, it does not beg… it simply lingers, curling around his thoughts like a distant echo, pressing against the thin walls of his mind.

Open it!

His fingers twitch, hovering closer to the purse, but they do not touch. Not yet.

How long has he sat here? How many days? How many years? Has it been a lifetime? He no longer remembers stepping into this place, no longer remembers the moment he first laid eyes upon the purse. Only that it has always been here. That it has always mattered.

The room around him is nothingness. No windows, no doors, only the weight of shadow pressing in from all sides. A place outside of time, outside of reason. If walls exist, he has never found them. If a floor supports him, he has never seen it. There is only the dark. Only the waiting.

And only the purse.

Something inside it waits, just as he does. A secret, a memory, a truth.

Or a lie.

His breath rattles in his chest, dry and hollow, scraping against ribs that jut like broken daggers beneath his withered skin. His eyes, sunken and bloodshot, reflect nothing. There is no light to catch them, no glint of recognition, only the dull haze of a man lost to everything but this moment.

He swallows, though his throat is raw, dust coating his tongue like ash. His hands tighten into fists, then loosen again, slow and shaking.

He could open it.

He could finally see.

But what if? What if there is nothing?

What if he has wasted everything, all these countless moments, all these forgotten years, all this waiting for an empty purse?

The thought coils around his ribs, squeezes against his lungs. His breath shudders out. His fingers curl, hesitate.

He tells himself, as he always does, that he will open it.

Just not yet.