A gift of Souls and Orchids

Chapter 1

Ankara, 2018.

Black, the color of my wings and apparently my entire wardrobe—though, let's be honest, I wasn't exactly a fashion icon in the celestial realm. I mean, when you've got wings, who needs clothes, right? But alas, duty called, and there I was, decked out in my signature shade of darkness, feeling like a goth reject at a celestial party. And yet, somehow, black never lost its charm, even after what felt like a gazillion years of wearing the same old thing.

The journey led me to an unremarkable apartment nestled on the quiet outskirts of the city. The building, its walls marked by the relentless passage of time, stood as a silent witness to the countless lives that had unfolded within its walls. My eyes, as dark as obsidian and veiled beneath the shadowy hood of my cloak, gleamed with a solemn purpose as I approached the unassuming door.

Upon crossing the threshold, I found myself in a space bathed in a soft, muted glow. The room was gently illuminated by the warm, flickering light of a solitary lamp, casting long and languid shadows that danced across the timeworn surfaces. Here, amidst the whispers of fading memories and the embrace of the hushed ambience, I discovered Zacron.

One breeze of a touch from my extended hand tells me too much.

Zacron, his name is Zacron. A man who had traversed the labyrinth of life's joys and sorrows, now lays upon a bed that bore witness to countless nights and dreams. The sheets, worn and weathered, enveloped his fragile form, cradling him as he approached the final pages of his life's story. The lines etched upon his skin, like the pages of an ancient tome, narrated the rich tapestry of his existence—a life well-lived, now poised on the precipice of its concluding chapter. In his final moments, Zacron lay upon his deathbed, an embodiment of the passage of time and the stories etched into the canvas of his life. His frail form, once robust and vibrant, had been worn down by the years, and he now occupied a space between the realms of the living and the beyond.

The room held an aura of quiet reverence as if the very walls had hushed to bear witness to this profound transition. Zacron's eyes, once sharp and full of life's sparkle, were now clouded with the haze of twilight, reflecting the ebb and flow of his emotions as he neared the threshold of eternity. His hair was all shades of grey and white, as thin as it lays.

His withered hands, which had labored and toiled through the seasons of his existence, rested gently on the blankets that cocooned him. The sheets, faded with time, cradled his fragile form, a testament to the countless nights and dreams he had spent within their embrace.

Lines etched into his weathered skin told the story of a life well-lived, each crease and wrinkle carrying the weight of countless experiences, joys, sorrows, and memories. They painted a tapestry of wisdom and resilience, the undeniable imprint of a man who had weathered life's storms and emerged stronger for it.

The room was bathed in a soft, muted glow, cast by a solitary lamp that stood sentinel by Zacron's bedside. Its gentle light danced upon the timeworn surfaces, casting long and fleeting shadows that seemed to whisper tales of days gone by.

As Zacron's breaths grew shallower, the room held its collective breath, an unspoken acknowledgment that this was a moment of profound significance. It was a quiet, solemn farewell to a life that had touched the hearts of many, leaving an indelible mark on the world.

In his final moments, Zacron was a testament to the human journey—a journey of growth, love, loss, and ultimately, transcendence. His presence, though fading, held a timeless dignity, a reflection of the beauty and fragility of the human experience. Love and loss, whatever that is.

I extended my senses, weaving the delicate threads of connection between Zacron's fading soul and my own. It was an intimate dance, one that allowed me to glimpse the tapestry of his lifetime's emotions and experiences. Zacron's presence flickered like a feeble flame, teetering on the precipice that separated the living from the afterlife.