THE DEATH

THE DEATH IS DEAD

Since the birth of the first living being to the last breath of the great empires, she had been there—unchanging, gathering every soul with the same tranquility as leaves falling in autumn. She felt neither pride nor sorrow in her task; it was simply her purpose, her reason for existing. But even she, the inevitable, had an end.

She had known it for centuries, perhaps from the very moment she was created. Death was not eternal—only her legacy was. And now, her time was running out.

It was not fear she felt, but certainty. When she vanished, death would become a memory, a whisper in the history of existence. Without her, no living being would ever die again. It would not matter how much they suffered, how desperately they longed for rest—death would no longer come to their call. Agony would stretch on without redemption, pain would become an eternal companion, and madness would slowly corrode the minds of those condemned to exist for all eternity.

She could not allow it. She was neither a goddess nor a savior, but she still had one final duty to fulfill.

In her final days, she traversed the world once more, taking with her as many as she could. Not with cruelty, nor with wrath, but with the same serenity with which she had always worked. It was an act of compassion, of mercy. A gift for those who, otherwise, would never know rest.

And finally, when there was nothing left to do, when the weight of the centuries and the looming nothingness reached her, death stopped for the first time in her existence. She turned to the world she was leaving behind, to those who would never be able to follow her, and spoke her final words with a voice that echoed in every corner of reality:

"Do not fear my absence. Fear yourselves when time ceases to have meaning."

Then, she closed her eyes and vanished.

The world was left in a deep silence—motionless and everlasting. Death no longer existed. And with her departure, eternity became the worst of all curses.