A Story in Dark Wood and Whispering Light The candles in the room didn't flicker, even though there was no wind. Their flames trembled, as if they sensed something that disliked light. On the table stood a small box, black as a moonless night and decorated with motifs that looked more like prayers than ornaments. Its four feet rested heavily on the waxed wood, and in the center sat a figure: a Grim Reaper, finely crafted, with a delicate blade and wearing a black robe. But those who looked closely recognized it—this was not a symbol. This was a guardian. No one knew who had created the box. It was older than any book in the library, perhaps even older than the name of the house. But now it stood there again, dusted off, opened—and inside it lay: a small, glass vial. Filled with something that shimmered like morning light on a deep lake. Water. The water of life. The last thing that remained of the spring of Illyron, which dried up millennia ago when the last word of the first song faded away. The old steward, his hands trembling like dry branches in the wind, stared at the box as if he wanted to see a decision in it. His name was Malwen, and he hadn't always been old. Once he had danced on the meadows of Rotharn, had loved, laughed, and hoped. But then the girl had died. And he had stayed. His gaze wandered to the statue of the Grim Reaper. The skull didn't grin. It only waited. For whoever lifted the lid of the box didn't ask a question—it answered. "So, is this the time?" whispered Malwen. He remembered the words of the last guardian: "Water doesn't heal. It doesn't give new life. It only prolongs the old—along with everything you can't let go of." And Malwen hadn't let go of much. He held out his hand. The ampoule was light. Its touch didn't burn. It was just... cool. Hope? Or a burden? The Grim Reaper didn't move. But something seemed to thicken in the air, as if the moment had decided to pause. Malwen raised the ampoule to his heart. He felt something still beating there—slowly but steadily. He could drink. Time would stand still. His fingers would regain their strength. The colors would return, his memory would remain clear. Perhaps, someday, he would even laugh again. But the girl would not return. She was gone, as all things true go. Slowly, very slowly, Malwen replaced the ampoule. He lowered the lid of the box. A soft click sounded—like the end of a sentence. "Living also means letting go," he said quietly. And the Grim Reaper inclined his head almost imperceptibly. Not in mockery. In respect. Malwen turned and left. His step was heavy, but dignified. And the box continued to wait. Quietly. Patiently. Ready. For the neighbor who believes life is worth more than its finiteness.