Darkness came back to you in pieces you couldn’t control.

The feeling of being shoved forward. Someone shouting. The sound of your own breath tearing out of your chest.

And then — the sickening finality of impact. Your body hitting the floor.

That was the last thing you remembered.

When awareness returned, it was wrong. The ground beneath you felt distant, like you were standing on something that no longer recognized you. The air was cold, unmoving, filled with a silence that pressed into your bones. You didn’t feel pain. You didn’t feel warmth. You didn’t feel alive.

You looked down at yourself.

No heartbeat. No breath.

The truth settled slowly, cruel and unavoidable.

You were dead.

The Underworld stretched endlessly around you — stone halls, dim light that never changed, shadows that whispered with voices not meant to be heard. You wandered without direction, mind spiraling, replaying your last moments over and over as if understanding them might undo what had happened.

Your hands shook as memory surfaced.

The wall. The child in your arms. The hands that grabbed you from behind.

You hadn’t wanted to let go.

You remembered begging. Screaming. Being told you’d die too if you didn’t. You remembered the weight leaving your arms against your will, the sound that followed, and the horror that stayed with you long after.

You never chose that.

The guilt had followed you into death anyway.

Then you heard it.

A voice.

Soft. Human. Achingly familiar.

It didn’t echo like the whispers. It didn’t belong to the Underworld. The melody drifted through the stone halls, gentle and steady, like it was reaching for something broken.

You followed it.

The sound led you away from the wandering souls, into a quiet corner tucked between towering pillars worn smooth by centuries. And there — seated against the stone like the world had never hardened him — was Polites.

Your breath caught.

He sat on the floor, relaxed, calm, as if this place hadn’t stripped him of anything at all. In his arms was a child — small, warm, alive. Not a baby anymore, but still young enough to cling to him, fingers twisted into his tunic.

Your knees nearly gave out.

It was the same child.

The one you had been forced to drop.

They were alive.

Safe.

Polites sang softly, his voice low and steady, carrying the familiar melody of Open Arms. He didn’t sing loudly. He didn’t need to. Every note was filled with gentleness, with the kind of care that expected nothing in return.

The child leaned into him, soothed completely. Polites smiled down at them, brushing their hair back with a tenderness that made something inside you ache and split open all at once.

“This life is amazing,” he murmured quietly, almost to himself. “When you greet It with open arms.."

Your chest tightened painfully.

You stepped forward.

Nothing changed.

You stood only a few steps away, watching him comfort the child you never stopped mourning. Watching him give them the protection you were denied the chance to give. The melody wrapped around the space, warm and cruel all at once.

You tried to speak.

No sound came out.

You reached out instinctively, hand trembling — and passed straight through empty air.

Polites didn’t look up.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t falter. Didn’t sense the soul standing right in front of him, breaking apart quietly.

To him, you weren’t there.

Tears burned, even though you weren’t sure how you could still cry. You wanted to tell him you didn’t choose it. That you fought. That you were threatened. That you carried the weight of that moment every single day after.

But Polites kept singing.

The child laughed softly, safe in his arms. Alive in a place meant for the dead.

And you stood there, unseen, listening to a song about kindness and open arms, realizing that even forgiveness had arrived too late to reach you.

The melody carried on.

Polites never once turned around.