The darkness did not come all at once.

  It crept in slowly, like night settling over a tired world.

  Samye drifted within it, his consciousness slipping farther away with every passing second. His body felt distant now—heavy, unresponsive, no longer his to command.

  Then memories surfaced again.

  Not violently.

  Gently.

  He saw his parents—standing the way they used to, smiling softly, as if nothing had ever gone wrong. He heard their voices calling his name, warm and familiar.

  And then another voice joined them.

  Older. Tired. Kind.

  “Don’t die so soon, my son.”

  The dying old man’s words echoed through the darkness, clearer than anything else.

  Samye tried to answer.

  He tried to speak—to say he was sorry, to say he had tried—but his lips would not move. His thoughts felt slow, stretched thin, as if time itself was slipping through his fingers.

  The voices faded in and out, like signals lost in a storm.

  His consciousness continued to fall.

  At the edge of death, Samye felt something strange.

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  Regret.

  Not sharp. Not painful.

  Just… present.

  He understood then what people meant when they said every human carries unfinished desires into death. Moments they wished they could redo. Words they wished they had spoken. Choices they wished they had made differently.

  Samye’s mind relaxed further.

  Numbness spread completely.

  And in that quiet emptiness, only one thought remained.

  I wish I had the ability to do things differently.

  The thought felt small. Almost childish.

  But maybe I wasn’t blessed enough, he continued silently.

  Maybe this is just how it was meant to end.

  A faint sense of acceptance followed.

  I guess… this is for the best.

  Then—

  Something answered him.

  “Really?”

  The voice was calm. Clear. Too close.

  Samye felt himself pause—not physically, but mentally.

  “Is that your excuse,” the voice continued, “at the face of death?”

  Samye couldn’t tell where it came from.

  It didn’t sound like his parents.

  It didn’t sound like the old man.

  It didn’t sound like any guard or memory.

  It sounded like him.

  Stronger.

  Sharper.

  Unburdened.

  “You watched your world burn,” the voice said evenly.

  “You saw injustice. Cruelty. Choice.”

  The darkness around him shifted slightly, like something was paying attention now.

  “And this is where you stop?”

  Samye wanted to deny it—but the words wouldn’t come.

  The voice pressed on.

  “You blame gods. Fate. Luck.”

  “But tell me—did you ever truly accept doing nothing?”

  Images flickered again.

  The bridge.

  Aren’s tears.

  The screams behind the walls.

  “You endured,” the voice said.

  “You resisted.”

  “You chose pain over silence.”

  A pause.

  “So why pretend this is surrender?”

  Samye felt something stir.

  Not power.

  Not anger.

  Refusal.

  “I had no power,” Samye thought weakly. “No ability. No chance.”

  The voice answered instantly.

  “Power is not permission,” it said.

  “And chance is not given.”

  The darkness tightened around him.

  “Tell me, Samye,” the voice asked quietly, “if you were given one moment—just one—would you still choose to look away?”

  Silence followed.

  Then, slowly—

  “No,” Samye answered.

  The word didn’t leave his mouth.

  It didn’t need to.

  Something shifted.

  Time did not move.

  But it listened.

  And for the first time since the fire—

  Samye wanted to live.

  Not to survive.

  But to change something.