“…Ah.”

His voice was hoarse, not from anger—but from a weariness too old to cry.

“So… this is what it feels like.”

He looked down slightly, shards of light falling from his shoulders, shattering in the air like stardust losing its orbit.

“You came,” he continued quietly, as if acknowledging the fact, not accusing.

“That’s enough…really.”

He raised his cracked hand, blue and gold light pulsing unevenly. His hand trembled—not from fear, but because his body no longer agreed with his will to survive.

“I know,” he said softly. “I know you tried.”

He smiled a little. A smile that didn’t demand an answer.

“Funny… all this time I thought, if someone had arrived in time, everything could have been saved.”

The light in his eyes dimmed for a moment, then returned—warmer, softer.

“It turns out… not everything is meant to be saved.”

He stared at y/n, intently, as if he wanted to engrave that face into his final memory.

“Don’t misunderstand,” he said quickly, as if afraid his words would be misinterpreted.

“This isn’t your failure.”

The crack in his chest widened, light leaking through like a premature dawn.

“I was already beginning to crumble long before you arrived.”

He took a breath—short, broken.

“If you’re asking what hurts most…” “…it’s not this.”

He smiled again. This time more fragile.

“What hurts most is… I finally know what it feels like to be helped.”

A light wind swirled around him. His body began to lose shape, turning into slowly floating fragments.

“And precisely because of that,” he whispered,

“I can go in peace.”

His last sentence was almost silent, yet clear—like a prayer no one wanted to hear but the one person in front of him.

“Please… don’t carry this guilt.”