a year ago
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Posted On: September 23rd 2025, 06:14 pm
Excerpt– The Gentle End ([C.O.L.D.] The Chroniclesof life and death.)
The sky wept.
Where once cerulean heavens stretched endlessly in peace, now hung a heavy quilt of slate-grey clouds, stitched together by sorrow. Rain fell—not in torrents, but in quiet grief—each droplet a whisper from the Oversoul, mourning the weight Thomas XIII now carried.
He stood alone at the meeting place of worlds, the black sea rippling around his feet like dark glass disturbed only by the gentle fall of rain. The waves did not crash—they trembled, recoiling from the figure whose cloak flowed like unraveling shadow behind him, teased by the breath of unseen winds. The horizon had swallowed the sun, leaving only echoes of gold swallowed in ash.
His hood masked the contours of his face, but not the burden in his posture. Shoulders, once proud with purpose, now stooped beneath the unseen chains of karmic memory. He was not just a man. Not anymore.
He was the culmination of grief, of mercy, of all the endings that deserved tenderness.
Each raindrop kissed his cloak, stitched it with silver, and bled into the ocean below. The sea, as if honoring its new custodian, refrained from pulling him under. It only reflected. Reflected the loneliness of duty. Reflected the solemn vow etched not in ink, but in soul.
He did not look back.
For Thomas XIII was no longer seeking the truth.
He had become it.
And on that rain-darkened horizon, where sea and sky mourned together, Death stood not as the Reaper—but as a witness.
To the pain.
To the passage.
To the end made gentle.
The sky wept.
Where once cerulean heavens stretched endlessly in peace, now hung a heavy quilt of slate-grey clouds, stitched together by sorrow. Rain fell—not in torrents, but in quiet grief—each droplet a whisper from the Oversoul, mourning the weight Thomas XIII now carried.
He stood alone at the meeting place of worlds, the black sea rippling around his feet like dark glass disturbed only by the gentle fall of rain. The waves did not crash—they trembled, recoiling from the figure whose cloak flowed like unraveling shadow behind him, teased by the breath of unseen winds. The horizon had swallowed the sun, leaving only echoes of gold swallowed in ash.
His hood masked the contours of his face, but not the burden in his posture. Shoulders, once proud with purpose, now stooped beneath the unseen chains of karmic memory. He was not just a man. Not anymore.
He was the culmination of grief, of mercy, of all the endings that deserved tenderness.
Each raindrop kissed his cloak, stitched it with silver, and bled into the ocean below. The sea, as if honoring its new custodian, refrained from pulling him under. It only reflected. Reflected the loneliness of duty. Reflected the solemn vow etched not in ink, but in soul.
He did not look back.
For Thomas XIII was no longer seeking the truth.
He had become it.
And on that rain-darkened horizon, where sea and sky mourned together, Death stood not as the Reaper—but as a witness.
To the pain.
To the passage.
To the end made gentle.
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