A deep silence, like a stone falling into the heart of the sea, took over the space after Vantias spoke…
The Ferryman paused for a moment. It was as if the words were heavy in his throat, searching for the truest thing to say.
A cold wind blew from nowhere… His dark cloak twisted in the air — illogical, but nothing here obeyed logic.
As if at the edge of this cliff, the very laws of the world had broken.
With a calm yet resonant voice, one that seemed to echo from the depths of time, he said:
"What made you so tired of life, Cyrus?"
Vantias – or rather, Cyrus – lowered his head.
Bitter memories rushed back like a cold wave crashing behind him.
A dry, trembling voice came from his throat; more like a scornful laugh — not at others, but at himself…
Then he looked up. His eyes were weary, but honest.
And he spoke just two words — short, but like twin blades through the heart:
"Inadequacy... Unworthiness."
In that moment, the cliff seemed deeper. The silence, heavier.
As if the universe itself had felt those words — and for a moment, even breathing stopped.
The Ferryman stepped back a few slow paces. The scrape of his cane echoed through the eerie stillness. He paused again. Silent.
A cold wind rose from the depths of the chasm. His dark cloak danced. In a place where no wind should blow… the rules no longer applied.
With a quiet but weighty voice, he said:
"Maybe... you were just looking for a sign of weakness."
Then a smirk crept into his voice — something between disdain and doubt:
"Were you hoping your failures would buy you some sympathy?"
But Vantias remained silent.
He didn't get angry. He wasn't upset.
He just sank into thought.
For the first time, it seemed he truly *considered* the question — not to defend himself, not to deny it… but to understand.
A few moments passed. Then Vantias took a step forward, reached the edge, and sat down. His legs dangled over the cliff, his hands rested on his knees.
His voice was calm, but it echoed through the space:
"Maybe… it's a good question.
One that's always been there, but I kept skipping past it.
Until I was finally forced to face it… to face the truth."
The Ferryman stood motionless. Something in Vantias' honesty had caught his attention.
He asked:
"And what was that truth?"
Vantias looked down. The void at the bottom of the chasm stirred. Something in the depths was breathing…
Then he said:
"That…
Showing weakness isn't about seeking pity.
It's about being human."
The words came slowly, but they dropped into the night like stones.
"We humans… we always want to be seen. Even when we pretend we don't.
We show our pain, not for sympathy, but because we don't want to be alone.
Everything revolves around that feeling… the hope that someone, somewhere, truly sees us."
He fell silent.
So did the Ferryman.
A moment passed. Silence draped over them like a heavy black curtain.
Vantias gave a faint smile; not one of joy, but one born of bitter understanding.
With a soft yet weighty tone, he said:
"And you know what the strangest part is?"
The Ferryman hesitated.
His voice was still cold, but with a hint of hidden curiosity:
"What part?"
Vantias took a deep breath. His gaze still fixed on the darkness of the chasm, where emptiness itself seemed to breathe.
He said slowly:
"That… I never let anyone see me.
I was the one who stopped them.
Not because I didn't want to, not because I didn't need to…
But because I was always torn between two things — between being seen… and disappearing."
The Ferryman's hollow face held no mockery — only confusion.
He asked:
"But why? Why would anyone hide themselves?"
Vantias paused.
He closed his eyes.
As if old memories, ancient wounds, rose again from the dark corners of his mind.
Then he said:
"Because when no one can see you… no one can hurt you.
I didn't hate pity.
I feared the pain that followed.
The pain of someone coming close… and then vanishing."
After hearing his words, the Ferryman smiled for the first time.
A soft, sorrowful smile — not of mockery, not of comfort...
Just a quiet, grieving smile.
With a faint, hoarse voice, he said:
"Then let me… offer you my final gift."
Vantias looked at him.
He took a few slow steps closer...
The Ferryman raised his white cane and gently tapped it on the ground several times.
Tap— tap— tap...
The sound echoed like a bell through the space.
And suddenly...
Everything began to change.
The surrounding darkness was peeled away like a thick curtain.
The dark, solid ground beneath them shifted — turning into a transparent, glass-like surface.
Smooth. Shining. Endless.
As if Vantias and the Ferryman now stood on a threshold between sky and earth...
And from up there, they could see the world below.
A faint light glowed beneath the glass — like a fragile warmth of hope not yet extinguished.
Vantias, eyes wide open, looked around in awe.
With a voice full of wonder, he said:
"Where… where are we? What's happening?"
The Ferryman, calm as if reciting a dream, answered:
"Your friends… they arrived in time.
You told me you were alone.
But you were never truly alone in this life.
Come — let me show you…"
With another tap of the cane, the glass beneath their feet grew clearer.
A veil of mist lifted…
And the image below appeared, like a window into reality.