Dorian blinked and the river returned to view, still moving slowly past the ruins.
But the ache in his chest stayed, heavy as a stone.
"I should have been there," he thought.
"If I'd gone with them to the shelter, maybe I could have pulled them out. Maybe I would have died too. That would have been fair."
The guilt was a steady, quiet voice, not a shout.
It spoke to him like an old companion, patient and unrelenting.
"You lived because you were weak. Because you stayed behind. Now you walk in a world that doesn't want you. You breathe air that belongs to those who should still be here."
His hands tightened on the paint box until the bent lid creaked.
A single flake of dried pigment fell into his lap and crumbled.
I stayed close in his mind, my own throat tight with the weight of his memories.
"You didn't choose to live while they died," I whispered.
"You were spared — not because you deserved it, but because there's still something left for you to do."
He didn't look up.
Didn't answer.
His gaze remained fixed on the slow, dark current.
The river murmured softly, its voice like a lullaby without words, promising an end that was only an illusion.
And somewhere deep inside, I felt his will slip a little closer to that slow, dark pull.