The field stands quiet and still. It radiates a sense of clarity and calm under the deep blue vault of heaven. The grass stretches for miles, a vast dark sea of green. Tall, sturdy trees dot the landscape, standing like patient sentinels among the quietness of the morn. A breeze blows across the land, soft and gentle. It brings with it the chill of winter, and the promise of decay.
If one were to witness it, they may not even notice the decay forming. After the breeze is gone, leaving the field quiet once more, a motion takes place. A single blade of grass seems to shiver, despite there being no breeze. It spasms, flailing from side to side, as if it has a life of its own. Maybe it does.

The blade begins to shrivel and die, caving under its own weight. It is unmourned. A blade of grass opposite begins to repeat the motion, twisting and turning, shaking and contorting, before curling in upon itself. Then another piece of the grass suffers the same fate. The repetitive cycle of decay continues, taking a single blade of grass at a time, and turning the once green field of splendour into a dead wasteland. It isn’t fast, as it has all eternity to work. It is slow, almost methodical.

The decay seeps into the trees, slowly tearing them apart, sucking the life out of them. It takes hold of the animals that called the field their home, ripping them asunder from the inside out. If anyone passed the field as this occurred, maybe the decay would have taken them as its next victim. Maybe it would change them, and gain a voice. Or perhaps it would cause them to fester from the inside out, and let them die again and again, forever.

The field stands quiet, under the dark grey of a gathering storm. The grass is dead, showing the rotting soil beneath. The trees dot the landscape, like lost and twisted children, trying to scream out for someone to save them. A breeze blows across the land, soft and gentle. It brings with it the forlorn chill of winter, and the promise of decay.