This... is the truth of our world.
A new day begins, and we don't know what waits in store for us—what awaits us at the end of the road, what path we're meant to take, what path we choose to take.
But they say... if you climb the Tower of Fate, all of that becomes clear.
"You actually believe that?" a soft voice asked, almost amused.
Takashi, a boy no older than thirteen, sat at the edge of the slanted hill, dark hair tousled by the wind, his gaze fixed on the towering monolith that pierced the heavens far in the distance. "Indeed I do," he replied, without taking his eyes off it.
Shiro tilted his head, narrowing his blue eyes at him. "Takashi, I think you're just making stuff up."
Izumi giggled lightly beside them, brushing her long white hair behind her ear as she kicked her legs over the hill's ledge. "Honestly, I agree with Shiro. You sound like one of those old men who sits in the corner of the market yelling about destiny."
Takashi didn't respond right away. His expression was calm. Not blank—quiet. "Maybe," he said at last. "But I still believe it."
"What makes you so sure?" Izumi asked, looking over. "About the Tower, I mean."
"My goal," Takashi said, fingers tightening slightly around the worn grass beneath him, "...is to climb the Tower. One day, I want to reach the top. To see it all with my own eyes. The truth. The answer. Whatever's there. I'll find it."
His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. There was something in it—something sharp, something aching.
"And I'll do it within my twenty years."
There was a silence after that. The wind was the only thing that dared to speak.
Shiro leaned back, arms folded behind his head. "Hey, Takashi," he muttered after a beat, "why do you think we only live for twenty years?"
Takashi turned his head.
"Is it a punishment? Some kind of curse? Or maybe... a design?"
That question hung in the air like a blade suspended by thread.
"I don't know," Takashi said honestly, and something about that answer felt heavier than a lie. "But then again... what's our reason for existing?"
Izumi was quiet now. She watched the clouds with an unreadable expression.
"Do we just... exist here to die?" Takashi asked. "Or is there a purpose? Something beyond this tiny world? Something beyond these twenty years?"
"You sound like the philosophers on the broadcast," Shiro said. He meant it like a joke, but there was no humor in his voice. "Except less drunk."
"Maybe they drink to forget that no one has the answer," Takashi replied.
Izumi closed her eyes. "You really think the Tower can give it to you?"
"I have to believe that," Takashi whispered. "Otherwise... what's the point of anything?"
There was another silence—longer this time. The kind that seeps deep into your bones, the kind that makes you question if maybe you've just spoken something too raw, too honest for the world.
"Takashi! Shiro! Izumi!" a girl's voice called from below the hill. "Come on, you're gonna be late for dinner!"
Kiyomi. Shiro's best friend. Her voice was always clear like a bell, but it had an edge to it tonight—maybe worry, maybe annoyance.
Shiro stood up and brushed himself off. "We're on our way!" he shouted back, waving a hand.
The three of them began walking down the slope, golden sunset bleeding across the sky behind them, staining the clouds like fire melting into ash. But before they reached the bottom, Takashi stopped.
"Shiro," he said quietly.
Shiro turned. "Hm?"
Takashi stepped forward and removed the faded headband he always wore—frayed at the edges, the cloth thin from years of wear. He held it out.
"I want you to have this."
Shiro blinked. "Huh? Why?"
Takashi's eyes darkened, not in sadness—but certainty. "As you know... I won't be around forever. I probably won't even make it to the Tower."
"Don't say that."
"It's true," he said gently. "And you know it."
Shiro's jaw tightened. His hands clenched at his sides.
"I want you to climb it for me," Takashi said. "When you're strong enough... when the time comes, see what's at the top. See if there's anything more than this world. More than fate. More than... twenty years."
Shiro didn't take the headband at first. He looked down at it like it was something alive, like it would burn him if he touched it.
Takashi pressed it into his hand.
"Alright..." Shiro said softly. "Yeah. I will."
Takashi smiled, and for a moment, his face looked like it belonged to someone much older than a child.
⸻
That night, after dinner, Shiro sat on the roof of the old home they all shared, the stars swimming above him like glowing ghosts. He had the headband wrapped around his fingers, eyes vacant.
He couldn't sleep.
He didn't want to.
All he could hear was Takashi's voice.
Do we just exist to die?
Shiro didn't know. No one did.
But something inside him... burned.
A question he couldn't unask. A wound that hadn't even bled yet. A scream that hadn't been born.
What is the meaning of a life that's measured only in decades?
What kind of god—or force, or system—would craft a soul only to watch it vanish after twenty fleeting years?
Are we born with a purpose?
Or are we born, searching for one?
⸻
Takashi passed away that winter. Quietly. The sickness in his lungs had been eating away at him for months, though none of them had ever spoken about it. He smiled until the end.
He didn't even get his full 20 years his body faded into moats of light.
Shiro didn't cry.
Not then.
He stood there with the headband tied around his arm, eyes to the Tower in the distance.
He still didn't understand.
But he had a promise to keep.
And one day, when he was old enough, strong enough—when the grief had fermented into resolve and the pain had become a fire—he would climb it.
To the top.
To the truth.
To whatever waited beyond fate.
To find out if there was more than this.
More than twenty years.
⸻
This... is the truth of our world.
As a new day begins. The sky bleeds—crimson, gold—like the sun's dragging itself out of some half-remembered nightmare. It shines down on a place that's forgotten what morning even means.
The wind hums low across the broken earth, stirring dust and ash in lazy spirals. Like ghosts. Like yesterday, whispering things no one wants to hear.
We never really know what's waiting for us. Not truly. Not ever.
What's at the end of this road?
What path are we even walking?
No... what path do we think we're walking?
And when we choose it... do we really choose it at all?
But they say if you climb the tower of fate all of that is revealed.
⸻
Shiro stood alone on the edge of a fractured rooftop, high above what was left of the old world. The wind pulled at his clothes, carrying the scent of rust, earth, and fire—faint reminders of a civilization that had fallen to ash thousands of years ago. The jagged skyline stretched into a horizon of ruin, skeletal towers reaching for a sky that no longer offered answers. Some buildings leaned as though weeping, others stood defiantly, broken yet unbending.
Below, echoes of distant voices carried across the silence. Life. Fragile. Fleeting. Still moving forward.
Eight years.
It had been eight years since Takashi died.
And yet, it felt like yesterday—no, it felt like a wound that had never fully healed, just scabbed over and learned how to ache in silence. Shiro was eighteen now. An adult in name. But every day, the questions Takashi asked back then rang louder in his skull.
Why do we only live twenty years?
His black-and-gold hair whipped against his face as he stared into the sky, eyes heavy, expression unreadable. His form-fitting black hoodie clung to his frame, the yellow accents bright even in the gloom. The decorative straps and asymmetrical sleeves rippled in the breeze, just as restless as he felt inside. His utility belts clinked softly, each pouch packed with scavenged tools and salvaged memories.
"Yo, Shiro," a voice called behind him, light and teasing. "You just gonna stand there lost in thought all day?"
He blinked.
A girl stood there, maybe fifteen, blonde hair tied messily at the back, her stance confident, her blue eyes sharp. Sera.
He offered her a faint smile. "Sorry, I was just... thinking."
She rolled her eyes playfully, hands on her hips. "That much was obvious. Come on. We still haven't cleared the east wing of this place. I'm not trying to spend all day digging through scrap just so you can philosophize."
"Coming," he replied, his voice low but kind.
Together, they crossed the shattered rooftop and dropped through a broken stairwell into what used to be a residential complex. The walls were crumbling, metal beams exposed like bones, furniture half-embedded in dust and time. Graffiti stained the hallways.
"Wow... look at this!" Sera said suddenly, kneeling beside a buried end table. She pulled something from the debris—a small cube, metallic and glowing faintly with a blue pulse. "Think it's from the Old World?"
Shiro stepped closer. His gaze sharpened.
Izumi knelt beside Sera, brushing white strands of hair from her face. "It's still active... maybe a memory core?"
"Possibly," Shiro murmured, folding his arms.
He watched them closely—his sister and the girl who reminded him so much of a younger version of himself. Bright-eyed. Full of questions. They still believed in finding meaning in the ruins. They still held onto the hope that something from before could show them why.
"Hey," came a voice from behind.
He turned. Kiyomi stood in the doorway—long black hair flowing with the wind that danced through the ruined corridor, her magenta eyes fixed on him, perceptive as ever.
"You seem distant," she said.
Shiro gave her the ghost of a smile. "I've just been thinking."
Her lips curled upward. "I can always tell when you're thinking too much."
He looked back toward the half-collapsed wall that opened into the distance. "Is there such a thing?"
Kiyomi shrugged. "Maybe not for people like us."
"Are you three done yet?" another voice called from deeper inside the building.
A boy stepped into view—older than Sera, around their age. Brown hair, slightly messy, eyes a piercing red like dying embers. Toshiro.
"Coming, Toshiro!" Kiyomi called out, before turning back to Shiro. "Are you ready?"
Shiro looked at her, then at the rest of them. "Yeah," he said. But the word felt thin.
Like paper stretched too far.