Ploc… Ploc…
Rain fell without end, like threads of ice striking the ground, bursting into fleeting ripples that vanished the instant they were born. The air was heavy—damp, saturated with the scent of wet earth and iron. The world had narrowed to this single, monotonous sound… to this cold seeping beneath the skin… to this silence, heavier than anything else.
Seven lay on his back, mud mixing with his blood, clinging to his soaked skin. His fingers, stiff and frozen, refused to obey him. His chest rose in uneven jolts, each breath a battle already lost. His eyes stared into the gray sky—yet saw nothing.
No hope. No light. Only emptiness.
He had always believed he could endure. That he was strong.
But lying there, feeling the rain blend with his tears, tasting iron on his tongue, sensing the cold mud gnawing into his bones… that certainty was gone.
A thought surfaced—fragile, trembling:
I accepted death… so why…?
Why am I crying? Why does it hurt so much?
No answer came.
His lips quivered, but no sound escaped. Every drop striking his face felt like a needle of ice. Every breath was an effort bordering on agony. His entire body weighed him down like stone.
He wanted to raise his hand—just a little.
He couldn't.
His heart still beat. Dull. Irregular. Like a signal lost in a world that no longer expected anything from him.
Around him, ruins barely took shape through the fog. Trees twisted by the wind loomed like specters. The muddy puddle beneath him reflected a sky—heavy, gray, faceless.
Every sound was amplified by the silence.
The rain.
The wind.
The crash of his own thoughts.
Everything tasted like an ending.
And yet… deep within him, something faint—almost imperceptible—refused to fall silent. A dull pain. A spark of defiance without a name.
Ploc… Ploc…
Then, in this world reduced to rain and blood…
A figure appeared.
Tall. Silent. Its outline blurred by the downpour.
Two dark wings unfolded behind it—damaged, charred in places, like living scars.
Its steps were slow. Measured. Exhausted.
As if burdened by centuries.
It knelt beside Seven.
At first, no words.
Only the steady rhythm of rain. The whisper of wind. That crushing, suffocating silence.
Then a voice broke through—deep, gentle… yet firm:
— Are you afraid of me?
Seven shifted his gaze toward the presence.
He didn't speak.
His lips trembled, but no sound came. Only the faintest movement.
His eyes answered for him.
No.
A brief silence followed.
The voice returned, lower now—almost a whisper:
— You shouldn't be here… not yet.
The boy didn't move. His empty gaze searched the sky, as if hoping to find an answer hidden within it.
The voice continued—steady, almost fragile:
— Tell me… if I asked something of you… would you accept?
A blink.
Then, with imperceptible effort… a slight nod.
Yes.
The figure leaned closer. Its shadow almost completely swallowed Seven's frail body.
A trembling hand rested against his freezing forehead.
The touch burned… and soothed.
It weighed on him… and reassured him.
— Then remember, the voice whispered.
— Even if you forget… even if it hurts… remember.
The wind stopped.
Time itself seemed to hold its breath.
Between them, a fragile light flickered into existence—a dying spark resisting the dark.
At last, Seven spoke.
His voice shattered by pain:
— I… I don't want to die.
A smile formed on the figure's face.
Faint. Sad. But real.
— Good.
— Then live.
— Live… even if you don't yet know why.
The rain fell harder, like tears crashing upon the earth—upon the blood, upon the broken bodies.
The world blurred into black silence.
Ploc… Ploc…
And Seven felt his consciousness slowly dissolve, carried away into the dark…
While something, deep within his heart—
Refused to go out.
And in that fading darkness…
some are chosen by God.
Others…
are claimed by Death.