Antonio lay face-down, sobbing uncontrollably.
His fingertips clutched the damp wooden deck.
As the ship tilted slightly, the cold moisture seeped up through the planks soaked with seawater.
The salty stench stung his nose, and a dull thud echoed in the distance as waves struck the hull.
Above the dark sea, the rising moon quietly embraced their conversation.
Through trembling breaths, Antonio spoke:
"What… what is so wrong about humans relying on gods?"
His voice was soaked in despair.
Tears continued to stream down his face, falling—whether onto the deck, the sea, or into a deeper darkness, he no longer knew.
Alfred quietly stepped forward.
Standing beside the man who now trembled like a lantern swaying in the wind, he gently placed a hand on Antonio's shoulder.
"You're right. You did nothing wrong."
Alfred's voice was low and gentle, yet steeped in deep compassion and sorrow.
He looked out beyond the railing of the wavering ship, to the endless stretch of sea.
