The last week

A dark ambient soundscape underpins the spoken word, with sparse piano, distant low strings, and muted percussion accents, The deep rumbling narrator’s voice takes center stage, enhanced by subtle reverb and breathy effects, creating a theatrical, immersive, and melancholic storytelling atmosphere

When the world began to end,
it did not roar — it sighed.
The mountains folded like tired beasts,
and the oceans turned away from the shore,
as if they no longer wished to see what man had become.
They called it apocalypse.
But I knew better.
It was only the world… finally remembering how to sleep.
I had walked through many endings before this one.
A thousand skies, a thousand suns,
each burning themselves into the same regret.
Civilizations rise like fever,
and fall like forgiveness.
Every age, every dream, every god —
all believing they were different.
They never are.
I came from the mound upon the hill —
a memory wearing flesh.
Some called me Anubis.
Some called me Fenrir.
Some called me worse.
But names are for those who hope to be remembered.
I was sent only to witness.
To count the stars that died believing they were eternal.
When I found her,
the world was already unraveling.
The skies were cracked, the rivers crawling backward.
And yet she smiled —
as if there was still something left worth protecting.
I had seen that smile before.
Every world has one child like her —
a flicker of warmth in a dying storm.
The spark that makes you hesitate
when mercy demands you look away.
So I stayed.
For seven nights, I carried her through the bones of the earth.
The forests wept salt instead of rain.
Cities hummed with machines still working for ghosts.
The gods — silent for ages — began to stir beneath the crust,
their anger not thunder but ache.
The Covenant was waking,
and I could feel its pulse in the dirt beneath my feet.
She would ask about the stars.
I told her each one was a grave.
A memory of a world that ran too fast,
and fell too hard.
She would ask if we could go there.
And I would say,
"They all look brighter from below."
I wanted her to live.
But life is the cruelest promise.
It teaches you to love a thing
just long enough to lose it.
And I am tired of losing.
On the seventh night,
the sky turned white — not from fire, but surrender.
The earth exhaled,
and for a moment, I thought perhaps it could end quietly.
She was sleeping in my arms.
Small. Weightless.
Unafraid.
I told her she would not see the last day.
That mercy is the softest word for ending.
When she was gone,
the wind stopped pretending to care.
The world fell silent,
and for the first time in all my lives,
I wept.
Not for her.
For myself.
For everything I had ever buried.
Now I walk again.
No gods left to obey.
No souls left to guide.
Only dust,
and the faint echo of a lullaby I can no longer remember.
The stars have all gone out,
but their warmth lingers in my chest.
And I know,
when the final darkness comes,
it will not be death I meet…
but rest.

Every star I’ve buried  shone before it died!
Every soul I carried was burning bright!
Now the gods unmake what they create!
And I return to the soil — unafraid!

Ash to root, and root to flame…
Tomorrow wakes, and ends the same.

(Unafraid… unafraid…)

2917/7500

When the world began to end, it did not roar — it sighed. The mountains folded like tired beasts, and the oceans turned away from the shore, as if they no longer wished to see what man had become. They called it apocalypse. But I knew better. It was only the world… finally remembering how to sleep. I had walked through many endings before this one. A thousand skies, a thousand suns, each burning themselves into the same regret. Civilizations rise like fever, and fall like forgiveness. Every age, every dream, every god — all believing they were different. They never are. I came from the mound upon the hill — a memory wearing flesh. Some called me Anubis. Some called me Fenrir. Some called me worse. But names are for those who hope to be remembered. I was sent only to witness. To count the stars that died believing they were eternal. When I found her, the world was already unraveling. The skies were cracked, the rivers crawling backward. And yet she smiled — as if there was still something left worth protecting. I had seen that smile before. Every world has one child like her — a flicker of warmth in a dying storm. The spark that makes you hesitate when mercy demands you look away. So I stayed. For seven nights, I carried her through the bones of the earth. The forests wept salt instead of rain. Cities hummed with machines still working for ghosts. The gods — silent for ages — began to stir beneath the crust, their anger not thunder but ache. The Covenant was waking, and I could feel its pulse in the dirt beneath my feet. She would ask about the stars. I told her each one was a grave. A memory of a world that ran too fast, and fell too hard. She would ask if we could go there. And I would say, "They all look brighter from below." I wanted her to live. But life is the cruelest promise. It teaches you to love a thing just long enough to lose it. And I am tired of losing. On the seventh night, the sky turned white — not from fire, but surrender. The earth exhaled, and for a moment, I thought perhaps it could end quietly. She was sleeping in my arms. Small. Weightless. Unafraid. I told her she would not see the last day. That mercy is the softest word for ending. When she was gone, the wind stopped pretending to care. The world fell silent, and for the first time in all my lives, I wept. Not for her. For myself. For everything I had ever buried. Now I walk again. No gods left to obey. No souls left to guide. Only dust, and the faint echo of a lullaby I can no longer remember. The stars have all gone out, but their warmth lingers in my chest. And I know, when the final darkness comes, it will not be death I meet… but rest. Every star I’ve buried shone before it died! Every soul I carried was burning bright! Now the gods unmake what they create! And I return to the soil — unafraid! Ash to root, and root to flame… Tomorrow wakes, and ends the same. (Unafraid… unafraid…)

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