The reeds swayed in ceaseless whispers, bending beneath the merciless wind. It swept across his face, a cold hand pressing against his breath, as though the world itself sought to suffocate him. The meadow stretched endlessly, barren save for the whispering reeds, their delicate stalks brushing against each other in mournful unity. Above, the heavens offered no sign of a god; below, the earth cradled no trace of men. He stood alone. His gaze rose to meet the empty expanse of the sky, then fell to his calloused hands. The weathered skin, etched with the lines of centuries, trembled as he raised them to shield his face. Long, black hair whipped around him, tangling with his fingers as though the wind sought to claim him entirely. He had walked this earth longer than memory itself, seen the rise and fall of empires, the birth and decay of countless lives. He had thought nothing could surprise him.

  Yet here he stood, breath caught in his chest, as if the weight of this moment would crush him. This day was unlike any other—a turning point for all who loved, who hated, who wept, who fought. A moment that would echo through the ages. And yet, no one was here to witness it. No herald to proclaim it, no crowd to mourn it. He had told no one, fearing that even the faintest whisper might shatter the fragile beauty of what was to come. The vision of the future had come to him long ago, in another meadow, where the earth was rich with color and life. He had stood there, watching his younger brother dart between the flowers, his laughter a melody carried on the wind. And then, it had struck him—a glimpse of a future so radiant, so boundless in its promise, that it had stolen the breath from his lungs. He had wept then, too, his tears falling unnoticed as he covered his face with trembling hands. That vision haunted him still. The faces of generations yet to come—smiling, grieving, warring, embracing—played across his mind like a tapestry woven by fate itself. He had seen too much in that single moment, more than any mortal mind could bear.

  Even now, wherever he turned, he saw their shadows: lives waiting to be lived, stories yearning to be told. How many more of them were there? Perhaps the world was not as empty as it seemed. Perhaps he and his brother were not alone. The reeds parted as he moved, the sea of gold bowing to his passage. He gathered his unruly hair, tying it back with the thread of a memory. The wind still howled, but it no longer lashed at him—it carried him forward. Slowly, he lifted one hand toward the heavens and pointed the other to the earth below. Here, in this forsaken place, he would plant the seed of a future he would never live to see. The thought gnawed at him. He would never rest beneath the shade of this tree, never taste the sweetness of its fruit. He loved, he cried, he yearned—was he not human, too? Why should it fall to him to make this sacrifice? His hand wavered, trembling with the weight of his doubts. But then, he let them fall. One by one, his fears, his regrets, his fragile humanity slipped away, like drops of rain sliding from a leaf.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Until there was nothing left but the resolve that had brought him here. He knelt, his body sinking into the earth, and surrendered himself to the world he had served for so long. The ground embraced him, soft and cool, as the last remnants of his being dissolved into its depths. From the water of his tears, the seed began to take root. It would grow into a tree unlike any other—a towering monument to hope and sacrifice, its branches stretching toward the sky, its roots delving deep into the heart of the world. He would no longer walk among men, but he would endure. He would become a witness to the ages, a silent guardian of the faith he had planted here.

  Far away, a figure emerged from the shadows of the clearing, his steps light as though he feared to disturb the sanctity of this place. The golden light of dawn caught his face, revealing the calm yet sorrowful features of Ylith. He approached the young tree that had already begun to rise from the earth, its amber leaves glistening like captured sunlight.

  “Oh, my friend,” he murmured, his voice soft as a prayer. The words hung in the air, as fragile and fleeting as the wind. “Did you truly believe yourself alone?” He placed his hand against the bark, the warmth of life coursing beneath his palm. The trunk shimmered, its hues of orange and gold glowing with a quiet radiance. For a moment, he lingered, his fingers tracing the intricate patterns of the tree’s surface. Then, with a smile tinged with sorrow, he stepped back, allowing the distance between them to grow. The tree stood tall, its branches spreading wide as though to embrace the world. It was magnificent, a testament to sacrifice and faith, to hope and despair.

  And as Ylith turned to leave, the clearing bathed in golden light, he whispered to the wind, “You will never be forgotten.”