Drowned in my thoughts, I feel weak.
The world around me is nothing but endless darkness, cold and heavy, as if the air itself has weight. My heartbeat is the only sound — slow, uneven — echoing like a drum in an empty cavern.
Yet through that suffocating black, something stirs. A whisper. A tremor. The sound of footsteps, impossibly distant but drawing closer. It's not the shuffle of an ordinary person. It's heavier. Rhythmic. Like the heartbeat of the world itself.
My fingers twitch. I try to move, but the darkness clings to me like water. My body feels foreign — too heavy, too cold — and my mind races.
Where am I?
The steps grow louder. A faint glow flickers at the edge of the darkness, like a candle fighting against a storm. I can't see what's coming, but I know — deep in my bones — that whatever is approaching isn't here by chance. It's been waiting for me.
The sound stops. The light swells. And for the first time, I see it: a shape in the dark, carrying a ball of darkness.