The first snow of winter blanketed the valley in a pristine white, softening the edges of the world and muting every sound. Lucian stood by the window of his cottage, staring out at the silent, frozen landscape. It was beautiful in its stillness, the snowflakes drifting lazily from the sky to settle on the ground like delicate, crystalline flowers.
He found himself smiling softly. There was something poetic about it—this serene, unbroken whiteness. It felt as if the world itself was preparing for a quiet end, wrapping itself in a shroud of tranquility. He had always admired the elegance of winter, the way it transformed the land into a blank canvas, erasing the past and allowing for new beginnings.
But for him, there would be no more beginnings.
Lucian had known for some time now that his life was drawing to a close. The signs were subtle at first—a slight heaviness in his limbs, a persistent fatigue that lingered no matter how much he rested.
