The wind clawed at his robe as he stumbled down the ridge, dust curling into his eyes. Ezekiel steadied himself. The voice had said go. So he went. But this place—this wasteland of bones—it felt like a rebuke.
He drew his cloak tighter and stepped into the valley.
Skulls. Femurs. Spines shattered like driftwood. White bone, piled and tangled, scattered across the plain like the aftermath of forgotten war. He tried to breathe through the stench lodged in memory. It had no scent here—just silence—but still, his stomach coiled.
“These were your people once, weren’t they?” he murmured.
The wind didn’t answer. Only the whisper of it moved over the bones.
Then the voice—it came again. Not behind him. Not above. Within.
“Son of man, can these bones live?”
Ezekiel froze. A lump hardened in his throat.
“…Lord God, You know.”
His voice cracked at the edge of belief. He waited, heart thudding like a drum in an empty hall.
“Prophesy to these bones.”
He wet his lips. His mouth had gone dry. Speak... to bones. To nothing. To what had been lost longer than words could reach.
But he raised his hands.
“Dry bones,” he called, his voice trembling, “hear the word of the Lord.”
The words barely left him before the sound came. A distant rattle. Then more—like hail skittering on stone—the noise swelling into a shuddering roar.
He stumbled back as the bones began to shift.
They moved—not like scattered windblown things, but with intent. As if something unseen pulled each one into place. Skull to spine. Spine to rib. Rib to arm, leg, feet.
They assembled.
He fell to his knees as sinew snaked across the white surfaces, like ivy blooming in reverse. Flesh followed, slow and crawling, then skin, smooth and pale, sealing each form.
Forms. Not corpses.
People.
But still. They didn’t move. A valley of bodies now, not bones—but still lifeless. Still silent.
He waited—for breath, for motion—but none came.
And the voice again: “Prophesy to the breath… say, come from the four winds, and breathe into these slain.”
Ezekiel bowed his head. Trembling, he lifted his chin and spoke.
“Come, breath. Come from the four winds and breathe into these slain, that they may live.”
There was no lightning. No fire. Just a stirring. A hush before a heartbeat.
Then, one by one, they breathed.
Chests rose. Eyes opened. Feet steadied. A thousand voices that said nothing, but whose breath alone roared louder than any word.
They stood. Every single one. A great multitude.
Ezekiel stood with them—both inside his skin and somehow outside it, cut adrift from the weight of his fears.
“A grave is not a grave for Me,” came the voice, softer now. Near. “My breath does not wait for permission. My promise doesn’t need evidence.”
He closed his eyes and wept—not for grief this time, but for something deeper. A bone inside the soul that remembered how to hope.
The wind tugged at his sleeve once more. But it was gentler now.
He looked up.
Across the plain, one of them—a boy, maybe twenty—turned and met his eyes. He said nothing.
He only breathed.
The wind clawed at his robe as he stumbled down the ridge, dust curling into his eyes. Ezekiel steadied himself. The voice had said go. So he went. But this place—this wasteland of bones—it felt like a rebuke.
He drew his cloak tighter and stepped into the valley.
Skulls. Femurs. Spines shattered like driftwood. White bone, piled and tangled, scattered across the plain like the aftermath of forgotten war. He tried to breathe through the stench lodged in memory. It had no scent here—just silence—but still, his stomach coiled.
“These were your people once, weren’t they?” he murmured.
The wind didn’t answer. Only the whisper of it moved over the bones.
Then the voice—it came again. Not behind him. Not above. Within.
“Son of man, can these bones live?”
Ezekiel froze. A lump hardened in his throat.
“…Lord God, You know.”
His voice cracked at the edge of belief. He waited, heart thudding like a drum in an empty hall.
“Prophesy to these bones.”
He wet his lips. His mouth had gone dry. Speak... to bones. To nothing. To what had been lost longer than words could reach.
But he raised his hands.
“Dry bones,” he called, his voice trembling, “hear the word of the Lord.”
The words barely left him before the sound came. A distant rattle. Then more—like hail skittering on stone—the noise swelling into a shuddering roar.
He stumbled back as the bones began to shift.
They moved—not like scattered windblown things, but with intent. As if something unseen pulled each one into place. Skull to spine. Spine to rib. Rib to arm, leg, feet.
They assembled.
He fell to his knees as sinew snaked across the white surfaces, like ivy blooming in reverse. Flesh followed, slow and crawling, then skin, smooth and pale, sealing each form.
Forms. Not corpses.
People.
But still. They didn’t move. A valley of bodies now, not bones—but still lifeless. Still silent.
He waited—for breath, for motion—but none came.
And the voice again: “Prophesy to the breath… say, come from the four winds, and breathe into these slain.”
Ezekiel bowed his head. Trembling, he lifted his chin and spoke.
“Come, breath. Come from the four winds and breathe into these slain, that they may live.”
There was no lightning. No fire. Just a stirring. A hush before a heartbeat.
Then, one by one, they breathed.
Chests rose. Eyes opened. Feet steadied. A thousand voices that said nothing, but whose breath alone roared louder than any word.
They stood. Every single one. A great multitude.
Ezekiel stood with them—both inside his skin and somehow outside it, cut adrift from the weight of his fears.
“A grave is not a grave for Me,” came the voice, softer now. Near. “My breath does not wait for permission. My promise doesn’t need evidence.”
He closed his eyes and wept—not for grief this time, but for something deeper. A bone inside the soul that remembered how to hope.
The wind tugged at his sleeve once more. But it was gentler now.
He looked up.
Across the plain, one of them—a boy, maybe twenty—turned and met his eyes. He said nothing.
He only breathed.
