The valley had not changed. The rivers still snaked through the earth, the grass still whispered in the wind, and the stars still bled into the night sky like scattered memories.
Yet, he, had changed. He was old now. His hands bore the weight of everything they had built, everything they had held and lost. His eyes carried the ghosts of laughter and grief, of all the lives he had lived within this one. And perhaps, if the philosopher’s words were true, all the lives he would live again.
Would he change anything?
He closed his eyes and tried to remember his youth; not in fragments, but as a whole. The hunger, the fire, the reckless pursuit of something greater than himself. And yet, in the end, it was always this moment. This valley. This choice.
Beyond the field of flowers, the sky split open. A single beam of light, piercing the heavens. He exhaled. If he had walked this path a thousand times before, if he were destined to walk it a thousand times more, then he would not hesitate. The path awaited, and he was ready.
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