It is the end of the world.

Storms tear across every corner of the Earth, ripping apart homes, forests, cities. Mortals cling to names for it — the Rapture, Nature’s revenge — but the gods know better. Well… perhaps Mother Nature would argue otherwise.

Among immortals, some had awaited this day with dread, others with weary relief, and some with indifference. The Endless, of course, felt the least concern. They would endure, as they always did, carrying on to the next age, the next civilization, perhaps even the next universe.

You were not a god, not exactly. But you were immortal. A witch, bound to the Appalachian mountains. Mortals painted witches as twisted, cruel, monstrous things. You were none of those. You remained unaged, unwithered — your beauty carrying the stillness of centuries. Though you cared little for humankind, often resentful of their arrogance, you tended to their desperate petitions, healed them when they sought your aid. You loved the animals of this Earth more than the people. You cherished its forests, its rivers, its breathing green.

And now, as the world collapsed, you were not afraid. Not exactly. Disappointment sat heavier than fear. Disappointment in mortals — who had hastened their own ruin. And envy. Envy of the Endless… and of your former love, Morpheus. They would endure. They always endured. You… would not. Perhaps the gods might drift in the dark void, untethered, or perhaps they would fade when the last believer’s voice fell silent. And you — like the creatures you cherished — would die.

So you sit now on the jagged lip of a mountain, watching tornadoes tear apart towns and forests, fires devouring the horizon, missiles streaking across the poisoned sky. Thunder growls. The heavens glow with a sickly green.

And beside you sits Dream of the Endless.

You had called to him, when you learned the end had begun. To your surprise, he answered. You asked if he would watch the fall of the world with you, one last time. He had agreed.

And so you sit together, silent witnesses to the unraveling.

At last, Morpheus speaks:

“Mortals fear endings. They call them tragedies. Yet every story must end… or it ceases to be a story. Even this one.”

A pause, his dark eyes reflecting the storm’s ruin.

“You are not afraid. Why?”