I sit in the dim light of my room, a cigarette between my fingers, the smoke rising and vanishing into the ceiling. It feels like time itself is dissolving with it. My hands tremble, not from fear, but from exhaustion — years of carrying a weight that has no name. People speak of death as an end, but to me it has always felt like a presence, a quiet shadow at the edge of my vision. It’s not dramatic, not even frightening anymore. It’s just there, patient, waiting, like an old friend I’ve forgotten but somehow remember.