A soul falling in an endless abyss. Nothing to grasp, nothing to see—yet every flicker of light cut through him like shards of glass. They glided, dancing along invisible currents, brushing his consciousness with the weight of stars and the memory of worlds he could not name. The void was overwhelming, impossible, eternal, and yet he felt it press upon him with intimate insistence, as though it remembered him.
A roar, deep and resounding, split the silence—not a sound but a vibration, a pulse that traveled straight into marrow and memory. It was both warning and invitation, terrifying and familiar, as if the cosmos itself exhaled through him.
A flickering light stabbed across the abyss, ephemeral and burning. For a moment, he understood the scale of existence, the machinery of life, the cold architecture of inevitability. He flinched, and in that instant, a sting in his back drew a cry from the soul itself, sharp, immediate, corporeal, impossible to ignore.
He looked at his hands, expecting nothing—and saw blood. Dark, viscous, dripping, not just red but alive, pulsing with an unfamiliar rhythm. The fall continued. Light and shadow interwove in impossible patterns, shaping cities, forests, and skies that had never existed, yet all of them felt like pieces of the same design, each a fragment of some eternal harvest.
The soul fell. The abyss held. The lights glided through him, showing everything and nothing, until he was nothing but the ache of the fall and the sharp remembrance of all he had never known.