The dark cell was damp, and smelled of humidity.

The guard that was…well, guarding it, or whatever was in the damned cell, had been ordered to slide the food under the door, just like he did twice a day.

All the time he had been standing guard, there had been not even one sign of life from the enclosed cell.

Not even the sound of a breath. Not even the rustle of fabric.

No one came to change the bedsheets. The door was never opened.

The wood was a deathly white, with a red cross standing out at the bottom, bloody and vibrant in scary splendor as the day it had been painted.

There was something fishy about this entire thing, and the guard, who will go unnamed, did not like it.

Yet, he still slid the food and water underneath the door, and straightened his back again, until a soft voice nearly startled his breeches off.

“I don’t like walnuts.”

He exhaled sharply, and answered back, making sure his voice wasn’t shaking. “Too bad. Eat up or you’ll get no other rations.”

“That is too bad.”