Teklavit: False Hope
"Teklavit," a voice echoed inside an empty room. Five men stood at the corner with anticipation—but they never looked at each other's eyes? Why is that? Teklavit grimaced with the thought. Light shone deep orange: deep enigmatic orange, coming from a crystal-like bulb. Like an early morning flower bud, it shone bright, flickered, then cut-off: the process repeated the same pattern. The air felt heavy, followed by a low murmuring of a man from his left side.
That would be me. Teklavit thought. "I." Raising his hand, dirty sleeves hung loose on his right. His left sleeve was torn, bruises and cuts formed like a tribal tattoo. This is it. He thought. Walking toward the center where the man raised his name.