To Whom We Write at the End
In a breath between silence and fading light, the narrator reflects on life, death, and the ache of being. A final reckoning—tender, raw, and quietly human—a farewell stitched from memory, fear, and the fragile beauty of existence.
These words rose like smoke from the final chapter of my existence—an elegy whispered into the waning breath of time. The last utterance lingered, spectral and unresolved, a quiet defiance before the shadows closed in to claim their rightful dominion. I had always known it would end this way—slow, solemn, inevitable.
From the scorched hollows of despair, we rise—or so the myth insists—reborn from the ashes of what we once were. And yet, beside me, voices trembled like reeds in wind, murmuring in unison, "Don’t let the sun set on us." A plea so fragile, so human. But the day, indifferent, slipped away all the same. And with it, the illusion of permanence dissolved like dust between fingers.
These words will vanish too. All words do. Fate was never one to archive our sentiments.
Still, I write—perhaps not out of hope, but necessity. In this suspended moment, as uncertainty winds itself around my ribs, I gift these fragments of time to the only soul I’ve never learned to fully love—my own. A gesture of quiet reverence for the self that carried me this far.
Death has always hovered at the periphery—a phantom brushing past me in crowded corridors, never pausing long enough to greet. I believed myself immune, incorporeal. But now, I see it for what it is: not an intruder, but an ancient companion.
I am everything I have ever touched, yet remain unknowable even to myself.
No matter how we beg, no matter how we barter, the inevitable does not yield. The choice was never ours to make—it never existed. And so, time folds in on itself, holding its breath in the silence that follows.
There will never be another moment quite like this.
Pain sears through me like wild flame—embers blooming beneath my skin, each one a memory flaring into finality. It burns, yes—but it’s not just agony.
It is the ache of being alive.
And the last thing I felt… was a fierce, untamed humanity.