For Good

Fifteen hundred years. I'm sure it's been fifteen hundred years because I've felt every single moment of it. Every draw of breath, every step on the hard ground, every ounce of stark reality has been obvious to me. I'm not the same as I was. Time has a way of digging deep into your spirit and settling its claws there.

And I will wait. I have no choice, but I keep telling myself that wouldn't matter.

It might not matter.

Would he even know me? Behind this familiar face is a creature who has lived the lives of hundreds of tortured souls. Does it show? Could he see the desperation there? If I made him look, really look...

If he were here, I like to think I could be who I once was. Could feel the release of the claws of time like a weight coming off my chest. I like to think that weight would be erased. That I would be whole again.

Have I only changed for the interim? Could that shroud be lifted for good?