He took a step forward. The water of the River Styx rose and brushed against his skin. It was gentle, like a loyal pet clinging to its owner. Then it began to wrap around his legs, winding slow and sure, pulling him in. Calling him closer.
He didn't fight it, and he didn't want to.
He kept walking. Deeper. Slower. The pull grew stronger, and yet his steps felt lighter. Something beneath his skin stirred. The ache in his shoulders began to slip away. The blisters on his palms softened. The scars on his body vanished. He looked down. His hands looked almost new.
He let himself fall back, and the water caught him. He floated without effort. His body felt lighter than it had ever been. The river didn't just carry him. It held him—quiet, steady—like it wanted him to stay. It didn't speak, but somehow he understood. He closed his eyes, let the river guide him. He let the Styx decide. He was too tired to care.
