That night, the shack was restless. The air pressed heavy, too thick to breathe. Men groaned in their sleep, some whispering names of families long gone, others muttering curses at gods who had never answered.
Kael sat awake, staring at the rope. Always the rope. His fingers hovered near it, the calluses on his palms itching for its coarse grip.
"It would be quiet," he whispered inside me. "No more sun. No more chains. Just silence."
The temptation wrapped around us both. I remembered my own fall, the peace I thought awaited me at the end, only to find screams. My throat tightened at the memory of the pit, of the voice mocking me.
I whispered back: "Silence isn't peace. You know what waits."
Kael flinched. His breath caught. He had seen flashes of it too—through me, perhaps, or through the cracks in this cruel bargain. The pit. The endless screaming. The torment reserved for suicides.
Tears stung his eyes. He pressed his fists against them, shoulders shaking. "Then what am I supposed to do? Keep suffering until I rot?"
"Yes," I said softly. "Because suffering isn't the end. It's the proof you're still alive."
The words broke something in him. He wept quietly, soundless sobs that soaked into the dirt. And for the first time, his hands moved away from the rope on their own.
He didn't choose life. Not yet. But he didn't choose death either.
And sometimes, that thin line in between was all it took to keep breathing.