Life exists in :
The crack in a dead planet where a single vine grows.
The last heartbeat that refuses to stop.
The laugh that escapes in the middle of a tragedy.
The hand that reaches out instead of pulling away.
Life rules over : Growth. Hope. Love. Memory. Connection. Regret. Dreams. The instinct to try again.
Life governs what mortals do knowing death exists.
Life cannot create perfection.
Only possibility.
That’s why worlds are messy.
That’s why mortals are complicated.
Life doesn’t want flawless world.
Life wants a living one.
The strongest beings in the world aren’t gods.
They’re mortals.
Because they live knowing :
They will lose.
They will fail.
They will die.
That’s Life’s greatest victory.
Record Ten - Elos
Elos leaned against the market stall like he belonged there.
“Hey,” he said brightly, tugging at the sleeve of the presence.
He reached out before the vendor of the stall could react and plucked a fruit from the pile. He lifted the fruit between his fingers, bright green skin catching the light.
“Look at this. Mortals call it an apple.”
He motioned for the presence to come closer, already too excited.
He bit into it.
Crunch.
His eyes widened. Juice ran down his fingers. He smiled. Genuinely. Childishly.
“Hm,” he muttered, chewing slowly. “I wonder what it tastes like.”
“I’m going.”
Cairon’s voice cut through the noise from across the market. He looked up mid-another bite. Cairon was already walking away, hands tucked into his coat. Behind him, a reaper stood still, head bowed low in reverence. It did not follow.
The vendor cleared his throat.
“Sir,” the man said softly. “Do you have money?”
He stared at him for a moment. Then waved a hand dismissively toward where Cairon was.
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“Heeeh? But we just got here!”
“I’m going.”
“Fine,” he called back. “I’ll stay a little longer.”
Cairon vanished.
He turned to the presence and grabbed both of its hands, lifting them dramatically.
“You will stay, right?”
“...Yes,” it said, looking away awkwardly.
Then
A sound. Muffled. Broken.
“Mama..! Mama !”
He turned.
A beggar girl was on her knees, shaking a woman’s body beside her. Her small hands clawed at unmoving shoulders, at cold fabric.
“Somebody help! Mama..!”
The woman didn’t move. People slowed as they passed. Some stared. Some frowned. Some whispered.
“Why she so loud..”
“Good riddance.”
“She’s pretending. Wants money.”
He didn’t move.
The woman’s ghost was standing in front of the girl, mouth slightly open. The reaper then stepped forward. It hovered near the ghost of the woman, unseen to all living.
“Excuse me,” it said politely.
“Your dead!”
“I’ll be taking your soul now.”
The woman gasped. She staggered backwards, still staring at her own body, at the girl clinging to it.
“What…? no .. wait…”
A pause, then loudly
“Why is it me!? “ No..!”
She turned, rage boiling over, pointing at the crying girl.
“That rotten piece of rubbish should have died too!”
Her voice crackled.
“Useless garbage… she couldn’t do anything right. Couldn’t even sell herself properly for food. When I got sick, she dragged us here… begging… embarrassing me ...”
She collapsed to her knees before the reaper.
“Take her instead.” “She was supposed to die too!” “This isn’t fair,” she snarled. “Why does she get to live?”
Her hands shook violently as she thrust them toward the child.
“Right! You said you wanted my soul... here… take hers instead. I’ll sell her to you.”
The reaper raised its ‘hand’. Something thin and pale began to pull away from her chest.
The woman screamed. No one in the market heard it.
Instinct took over. Her ghost ran. Toward life. Toward Elos. She collapsed at his feet.
“Mister… please … save me!” she sobbed, pointing back at the approaching reaper. “That thing…!”
The reaper had stopped a few steps away. Bowing its head. Not daring to interrupt.
He crouched, studying her.
“What a selfish mortal.”
She stared at him, confused.
“What are you talking about…? hurry up and save me !…You’re a man aren’t you, beat that thing now.”
He stood.
The reaper approached carefully.
“Excuse me, Lord Life. Excuse me L??? ”
It bowed deeply.
“Apologies for the inconvenience.”
And vanished. Taking the woman with it. Her shriek faded into nothing.
Silence returned.
Then
“There she is.”
A group of well dressed women pointed at the girl. Men in uniform pushed through the crowd.
Enforcers.
They grabbed her arms as she cried and struggled, refusing to let go of the body.
“Let go of me ! Mama !”
“Scum,” one of them snapped, striking her back with a wooden baton.
Once. Twice. She went limp.
They dragged her away. Then the body.
He watched. Then turned to the presence.
“Let’s go.”
The presence nodded. They disappeared into the deeper veins of the market.
... PRESENT ...
He stood at the entrance of the festival.
Paper lanterns stretched overhead like suspended stars, glowing warm gold and red. Laughter rippled through the air. Wind chimes clinked softly somewhere above the noise. The smell of grilled food, sweet syrup and smoke curled together.
Couples passed by him in flowing yukata, sleeves brushing, fingers laced. Some laughed too loud. Some whispered. Some walked slowly, like they didn’t want the night to end.
“Elos!”
Her voice cut through the noise.
He turned.
She was hurrying toward him, slightly bent forward, arms stiff at her sides like she’d sprinted and realized too late she should’ve paced herself.
“Sorry,” she said, breathless, stopping just short of him. “I’m late.”
She straightened, still catching her breath.
She wore soft, casual clothes. A pale sweater hanging loosely over a light dress that brushed her knees, the fabric catching the glow of the festival lights. Simple boots grounded her steps, scuffed from use. A shoulder bag rested against her hip, slung diagonally across her body. Her brown hair fell freely over her shoulders, slightly tousled from the rush. She looked warm.
He stared. A little too long.
The space in front of his vision shimmered. Text formed, floating there.
Lia.
He blinked and smiled softly. Faintly amused. Faintly proud.
He looked down again.
She was staring at the couples passing by, eyes flicking from sleeve to sleeve, from clasped hands to laughing faces. Her lips pressed together. Her shoulders drew in just a little.
Her thoughts spilled openly to him.
Whaaa..What’s going on here ? Why are they all wearing yukata..?
“It’s Tanabata,” he said aloud.
She blinked up at him.
Tanabata. The star festival.
A night where wishes were written on small strips of paper and hung on bamboo branches. A celebration of Orihime and Hikoboshi, two lovers separated by the river of stars, allowed to meet only once a year, when the sky permits it.
“Huuuhh..!” she exclaimed suddenly. “I totally forgot!”
Then, frowning slightly
“But the flier said fireworks.”
“It’s from the studio sponsoring the show,” he said. “They just timed it with the festival.”
She looked back at the crowd. Her thoughts raced. Her hands gripped the hem of her sweater, fingers twisting the fabric as she sighed quietly.
He watched her for a moment. Then
“Wait here.”
He stepped past her, slipping behind a stall stacked with glowing star-shaped charms.
And vanished.
A few blocks away, in a narrow side street, an old shop glowed faintly.
Inside, an old woman sat knitting slowly, hands trembling with age. Behind her, antique yukata hung in careful rows. Faded florals, deep indigos, soft creams, patterns worn thin by time.
“ What can I do for you, sir?” she asked, lifting her tired head.
“ A yukata,” he said simply.
She pushed herself to her feet with a small groan and gestured toward the rack.
“Pick one.”
He didn’t hesitate. He tilted his head, glanced at the fabrics and selected one.
Moments later.
He was back.
He held the folded fabric out to her.
“Here . You can wear this.”
“There,” he added, pointing to an empty stall beside them.
“You can change in there.”
