With a ruffling of chalky feathers, the owl alights on a broken arch, and watches as the man climbs the mountain of rubble. He grips at pitted creases in the rock, pulling himself forwards and upwards, his muscles quivering with the sustained effort. Sweat soaks through on his back and under his arms, but his limbs do not give, and his nerve does not falter.
Whatever the rock used to be, precisely, is beyond the recognition of owl or man. The surface the man climbs is charred and melted, and coated black with a shroud of soot. Vague shapes are outlined in the shadows, overlaying any details that might once have been beneath. Bits of jagged metal poke out here and there, like sharpened nubs of bone in a dusty graveyard.
His hands bleed from the roughness of the handholds, torn skin perforating his knuckles, but that will not be why he dies. Nor will he die from the lack of water he carries, or from the silent heat of the midday sun that beats down on his back.
He is already dead, she fears.