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The alarms still haven't gone off. He has been expecting the sharp noise of sirens alerting guards to give away his location; and yet, he hears nothing, only the soft noises of dry grass crunching under his feet. He doesn't fully understand how he managed to escape; he hasn't even got rid of the shackles binding his hands together. However, if he succeeds, he'll avoid hanging tomorrow.

With his heart beating so quickly and loudly that he can hear it, he stops at the edge of the land. There are only open fields all around him; there's simply no way no one will notice a lonely figure skipping across it from the watchtowers. He has only two options: either risk it and run for it or wait for the night, but that could cost him his freedom. He chooses the only reasonable option in this situation and lunches forward. If he manages to reach the woods, he should be safe.

The only thing he can think about is putting one leg in front of the other at the highest speed he is able to; everything else has to be put aside. He can feel his muscles growing slowly tired, his breath sharper and more painful for his lungs, but he cannot slow down. The fear of the alarms going off is enough for him to keep going; he still hasn't heard them, but there's no way they didn't notice a prisoner escaped. And especially this prisoner.

He can picture very clearly the smirks of his pursuers when he finally was caught; he was one of the rebels who were labelled as the 'Undesirable No. 1' for they have been trying to escape those four restrictive walls keeping them inside like rats in a cage. The world outside is forbidden, as are dreams, free thought and desires. Happiness has been changed into obedience; freedom into fake feelings of solidarity. As long as they are inside of these walls, they are prisoners not only to those in charge but to themselves as well. Their small group of rebels fighting against such repression has been hunted for almost three years now and the first one they caught was one of the leaders. So why are they not alerted about his escape?

He glances back; the prison is far behind him, yet he sees no pursuers. Adrenalin rushes into his veins. Have they really not noticed? That makes him either the luckiest man in the world or the greatest fool ever; if this turns out to be one of their schemes, he has totally fallen for it. With each step separating him from that hellish hole, his confidence grows and his fear shrinks; soon he will indulge in his new-found freedom.

And when he passes the first tree of the forest, he wants to scream. He wants to yell out in the ecstasy of his escape, he wants to climb up a tree and laugh in the guards' faces; they just lost their most valued prisoner. While running, he carefully searches for any sign of pursuit, but fortunately, there are no signs of that.

Suddenly, he feels lightheaded; he is forced to stop in his tracks. Like in a daze, he looks around; at the rays of sun shining through the tree branches, at the leaves quietly fluttering in the wind. Have the colours always looked like this?

His legs give out. He falls to the ground; he feels the grass in his face. His vision slowly darkens. No, no way. Is this where he's going to die? If he passes out here, his pursuers will have time to find him; his escape would be meaningless.

He desperately fights to keep his heavy eyelids from falling, but it's meaningless. Soon, his mind slumps into nothingness.

He wakes up in the grass, disoriented and exhausted. He has no idea how long he was knocked out cold; was it an hour? A day? Nevertheless, he is still lying in the forest, which means he hasn't been discovered yet.

His muscles are screaming in pain and his wrists are almost bleeding from the handcuffs scraping against his skin; he can feel sharp pain shooting in his limbs and lungs. If he could, he would stay lying right here on the spot; his situation isn't as generous though. He grits his teeth and tries to ignore the pain as he rises to his feet. His body reacts and moves slowly; there's no way he can run any further. However, he can't just stay here.

He starts slowly walking through the forest. It takes all his focus to just stand straight and not to fall back to the ground, but he somehow manages to do it. The forest is silent, except for occasional bird chirping in the branches and his heavy steps stomping on the ground. He can smell the scent of tree bark all around him; it puts his mind to ease. No matter if it prevails, this feeling of freedom is wonderful; he has never felt freer.

His steps lead him to a lake. The calm scenery opens before him like a picturesque shot in a film; it feels surreal to find such a beautiful place so close to the pit of death and suffering he is escaping from. He doesn't stop at the shore; something is pulling him in the water. He feels almost bad for disrupting the still, peaceful surface of the lake.

Stopping right before his bottom touches the water, he takes in a deep breath. His friends should be at the gate by now. They will surely wait for him, but not forever; if they don't know he's alive and free, they won't have a reason to dwell around there too long.

Something on the bottom of the lake, just at his feet, catches his attention. Is that a conch shell? He slowly leans forward and dips his hand into the water, reaching for the rather large object of light colour. And when his fingers touch the surface, something snaps and his shackles come off, sinking down to the ground.

The conch shell is surprisingly heavy in his hands, but he has a weird feeling that it's happy to see him. Conch shells are one of the symbols of the rebels and also one of the means of secret communication. Without thinking, he puts the shell to his lips and blows air into it.

The air is filled with a deep sound resembling a whining animal, loud enough to disrupt the birds somewhere in the distance. That means his friends could maybe hear it, but very likely also his pursuers, who he basically gave his location to.

Maybe he should move forward. Maybe he should run. And yet, he stands still in the lake, patiently waiting for a response. If he's caught, he's caught; there's nothing he can do about it. However, his heart is filled with hope; he's almost certain the right people heard it and recognised it.

But he hears nothing. He stands in the water for what feels like an eternity and his heart starts to sink in disappointment. Has he lost? He can't open the gate without his friends, let alone reach it. What will become of him? Is he done for? Is there—

And then, he hears it. The low humming of a conch shell, coming from the distance. He quickly pinpoints the direction; it's coming from the south-west. Someone heard him. Someone responded to him.

There's a loud splash of water as he drops the shell; this is not the end.