The old body lay on the bed, fragile, as if time itself had carved wrinkles of weakness and aging into it. His white hair, scattered across the pillow like withered leaves from a tree, left only a few strands remaining.

.

His eyes, which had witnessed one hundred and forty autumns, stared out through the open window, where the orange light of the setting sun bathed the room in a gentle glow. The leaves outside swayed, and some quietly drifted to the ground, as if reminding him of his own life's journey, which had begun in vitality and ended in decay.

.

He let out a long, heavy sigh, as if it were the last of his remaining strength. Memories danced in his mind: the years he had spent studying alchemy, his brilliant achievements, and the students who once filled the halls, eager to absorb his knowledge. Yet today, none of them were there.

.

No one cared for him as a person—only his knowledge had been of interest.

"One hundred and forty Springs ..." he murmured in a hoarse voice, his gaze, heavy with sorrow, fixed on the horizon. "What have I gained? No wife, no children, no true disciples... just people who sought my knowledge." His mind wandered through those moments, recalling each of them, remembering the faces that had come and gone without leaving anything meaningful behind.

"Did I make a mistake?" he wondered to himself, perhaps for the first time in his long life.