There was a stillness in the air Ramses had never felt before—not the silence of a frozen world, but something deeper. A breath held. A pause before movement. Something different.
He stood at the edge of the rooftop beside his silent companion, the sculpture he had built with his own hands. The morning light didn't shift, but something inside him had. Subtle, but undeniable.
It was as if the world itself were waiting.
He felt it not in his body, but in his soul: a ripple. A whisper.
The end of this chapter is near.
He sat down, cross-legged beside the sculpture, placing his palm on the rooftop's concrete surface. It felt cool and familiar, yet strange—as though it belonged to a world already becoming distant. A world that had carried him through solitude, struggle, and rebirth.
Ramses inhaled deeply.
"Something's coming," he said aloud.
He didn't know how he knew it. There were no clocks in this realm, no signs, no omens. Yet he felt it the way animals sense earthquakes before they strike. His mind sharpened. His body felt lighter. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he was restless.
But it wasn't the restlessness of despair.
It was readiness.
He stood up and looked out over the city, his eyes sweeping across the skyline. The buildings, the cars, the people—all frozen in their moment of life. Soon, perhaps, they would move again. Or maybe he would move beyond them.
Either way, he needed to prepare.
Not just physically.
Spiritually. Emotionally. Completely.
His first stop was the gym.
It had become a second home to him in this world. The clank of weights, the long hours of sweat, the conversations he'd imagined having with others—it was here he had broken down his old self and built something new.
He walked through the dusty room, ran his hands across the barbell he'd lifted a thousand times, and gave it one final rep. The metal still responded to him like a trusted friend. He finished with a set of push-ups, each motion deliberate, grounded, centered.
This wasn't about strength anymore.
It was a farewell. A ritual of closure.
"I'll carry you with me," he whispered to the silence.
Next, he went to the library.
He had spent countless hours here, devouring books on philosophy, psychology, spirituality, and science. They were his teachers, his silent mentors. He pulled one final book from the shelf: Meditations by Marcus Aurelius.
He flipped through the pages he'd marked over time. One line caught his eye:
"You have power over your mind—not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength."
He closed the book gently and placed it back. He didn't need it anymore. The words were etched into him now—not just in memory, but in action.
As he left the library, he felt a strange warmth blooming in his chest. A sense of gratitude—not just for the books, but for everything.
Even the pain.
Especially the pain.
He visited the places that had once scared him—the alley where he had been mugged years ago, the street corner where he'd broken down during a panic attack, the park bench where he'd once sat for hours wondering if he even mattered.
He didn't avoid them anymore.
He stood in those places and breathed. Deep, steady, present.
They no longer had power over him. The ghosts were gone.
He smiled to himself.
"This chapter... it's almost done," he said. "And I'm not afraid to turn the page."
Back on the rooftop, he sat with his journal one last time. The wind, still non-existent, felt as though it might return at any moment. Or maybe he would.
He began to write—not a reflection, but a letter. A message for the version of himself that might awaken. For the Ramses who might return to the world outside the stillness.
Dear Me,
If you're reading this, then it means you've returned.
You're back in the world where time moves, where people speak, where things change quickly and painfully and beautifully.
I want you to remember this: You were never alone. Not truly. Even in the silence, you found strength. You made peace with yourself. You became the man I always hoped you could be.
There will be noise again. Distractions. Doubt. People who don't understand.
But you've faced the void—and found your voice.
You've lived in a world without movement, without praise, without judgment—and you still grew. That means your growth came from within.
Never forget the rooftop. The journal. The sculpture. The workouts. The stillness. They are part of you.
Carry them forward.
Change the world—but do it gently, and with love.
— Ramses
He folded the letter and placed it beside the jar beneath the sculpture.
One more thing remained.
He sat in front of the figure again, gazing at the mirror embedded in its chest. His reflection stared back—older, stronger, grounded. Not perfect, but real.
"Thank you," he said to it. "For witnessing me. For being here. Even if you're just stone and glass."
He stood and reached out to touch the mirror one final time.
And that's when he felt it.
A vibration.
Barely noticeable, like the shiver of a held breath.
He stepped back, heart pounding.
It was happening.
The shift inside him wasn't just emotional.
It was energetic.
Like a frequency tuning, a veil lifting, a door unlocking.
Ramses didn't run. He didn't panic.
He welcomed it.
He closed his eyes and let the energy wash over him.
Whatever was coming—whether a return to the world or something entirely new—he was ready.
He had prepared not just to survive the unknown, but to step into it fully.
The silence hummed.
The sculpture stood still.
And Ramses—calm, steady, alive—waited with open arms for whatever came next.