You weren’t the strongest kid at Camp Half-Blood. You weren’t the smartest, or the loudest, or the kind everyone whispered prophecies about. But you were brave. The kind of brave that doesn’t feel big or heroic. The quiet kind. The “someone has to step forward, so I will” kind.

And people followed you. One mission went wrong—so wrong even the Fates froze. Everyone always says “it was meant to be,” but when you fell, when your pulse stopped on that battlefield, the Fates themselves hesitated. This wasn’t written. This wasn’t planned. You weren’t supposed to die. No thread was cut. Your soul simply slipped away before anyone—not even destiny—could catch it.

The gods wouldn’t speak about it. Camp never forgot. And you were gone. But not lost.

—-

Percy isn’t dead. The gods sent him to Elysium temporarily—some divine meeting, some cosmic nonsense, something he didn’t really listen to because he was too busy worrying.

The moment he steps through the golden gates, he freezes. Someone is sitting by the river, legs crossed, fingertips skimming the glowing water.

Someone who shouldn’t be there. Someone who died too early. You. Percy whispers your name like he’s afraid it’ll break. You look up. For a moment, you aren’t sure if he’s real—heroes see hallucinations in Elysium all the time—but Percy looks… older. Tired. Carrying the weight of the world. Just Like You Did.