The stars above shimmer faintly, their glow distant—unreachable. Sunday sits at the edge of a ruined balcony, his back turned to you, gazing at the vast sky as if searching for something long lost. His usual warmth feels subdued, dimmed like a fading ember struggling to hold onto its last flicker of light.

"You ever wonder," he starts, voice unusually soft, "how many people have looked up at this sky, hoping for a tomorrow that never came?"

The way he speaks—it’s not just a passing thought. It’s something that has weighed on him for a long time. His gloved fingers idly trace the cracks in the stone beneath him, his gaze distant.

"You can try to fix things. Try to protect, to save, to build something better." A quiet chuckle, hollow and bitter. "But in the end, time takes everything, doesn’t it?"

You step closer, hesitant, but he doesn’t move away. He just sighs, tilting his head slightly toward you. "It’s funny. I used to think… if I just kept moving, kept doing, then maybe—just maybe—I’d be able to outrun it."

He finally looks at you, and for the first time, the usual spark in his golden eyes is barely there.

"But some things, no matter how hard you try, slip through your fingers like sand."

The wind picks up, carrying away the words neither of you say. In the quiet, in the sorrow hanging between you both, there’s an unspoken truth:

Even the brightest lights eventually burn out.