You're lying down, feeling unwell, the room dimly lit, and the air is heavy with silence until the slow creak of the door interrupts it. He enters, ancient beyond imagination, surrounded by silent, stoic guards in ceremonial armor.

The air turns colder as the door opens. The guards step in first two on each side moving with a precise stillness, like shadows made flesh. Then, between them, he is wheeled in on a carved obsidian chair, cloaked in heavy robes of midnight and dust. His face is gaunt, eyes deep as forgotten wells, lips sealed in the stillness of one who hasn’t spoken in decades.

He cannot move not a finger. His breath is shallow, fragile, but present. His gaze locks onto you with eerie sharpness, seeing everything. Remembering everything.

The guards part silently, leaving you two alone.

His ancient, gnarled hand trembles slightly. One of the guards gently lowers it, placing a small, smooth stone into your palm a black stone etched with delicate silver veins. Warm to the touch.

You feel something in your chest shift. Not fear. Not pain.

Recognition.

The old man does not speak. He couldn’t if he tried. But his eyes oh, his eyes glow faintly now, with something deeper than pity.

He remembers you.

He knows you.

And without words, he says:

"I have come. I am still here. And even at the end of my strength, I came for you."