# Bite of Destiny
## Chapter 2: The First Encounter
---
Demri dreamed of falling.
Not the gentle descent that had deposited him in the forest, but something far more violent—a plummet through layers of reality, each one stripping away another piece of who he had been. He saw faces in the chaos: Seraphiel's golden eyes filled with cold judgment, Azareth turning away as if she could not bear to witness his disgrace, the High Seraph raising one luminous hand to pronounce the final sentence. And beneath all of it, a voice that was not quite his own, screaming into the void with a rage that threatened to tear the universe apart.
*You did this to yourself*, the voice said. *You chose this path.*
*I don't remember*, he tried to respond. *I don't remember choosing anything.*
But the voice only laughed, and the falling continued, and somewhere in the distance a child was praying for her father to come home—
"Sir? Sir, can you hear me?"
Demri's eyes snapped open.
Fluorescent lights blazed overhead, harsh and artificial, nothing like the warm luminescence of heaven. The ceiling was composed of white tiles interrupted by ventilation grates and the occasional water stain. A machine beside him beeped in steady rhythm, tracking some vital function he did not fully understand. And standing at the foot of his bed, clipboard in hand, was a woman in pale blue scrubs whose expression suggested she had been trying to wake him for some time.
"There you are," she said, her tone professional but not unkind. "How are you feeling this morning?"
Morning. The word felt foreign on his tongue. In heaven, there had been no morning—only the eternal, unchanging radiance of divine light. Time had been measured in epochs and eons, not the crude divisions of hours and days. But here, in this sterile room with its beeping machines and chemical smells, morning apparently meant something. It meant the darkness had passed, and a new cycle of mortal existence had begun.
"I feel..." Demri paused, taking inventory of his physical form. The exhaustion that had pressed him into the pavement the night before had faded somewhat, replaced by a dull ache that permeated his muscles and joints. His throat was dry. His head throbbed with a low, persistent pain. And beneath all of it, coiled like a serpent waiting to strike, he could still feel the hunger. "I feel mortal."
The nurse—for that was clearly what she was—raised an eyebrow at his choice of words but made a note on her clipboard without comment. "Well, your vitals are stable. No signs of internal bleeding or head trauma, which is frankly remarkable given the state you were in when they brought you in. The doctor will want to run a few more tests before we can talk about discharge." She paused, studying him with curiosity she did not quite manage to hide. "Do you remember anything more about what happened? The paramedics said you were claiming memory loss."
Memory loss. Yes, that had been his strategy—feign ignorance until he could develop a more comprehensive understanding of his situation. It was not entirely a lie; his memories of the trial and his fall remained fragmented, full of gaps and contradictions that troubled him deeply. But he remembered enough to know that the truth would serve no purpose here.
"Fragments," he said carefully. "Images without context. I remember walking. I remember the forest. Beyond that..." He shook his head, allowing genuine frustration to color his expression. "It's like trying to hold water in my hands."
The nurse nodded sympathetically. "That's not uncommon with trauma. Sometimes the memories come back gradually, sometimes all at once, and sometimes..." She hesitated. "Sometimes they don't come back at all. But either way, we'll take care of you. That's our job."
*Take care of you.* The phrase struck Demri as oddly poignant. When was the last time anyone had taken care of him? In heaven, celestial beings were expected to be self-sufficient, to draw their strength from the cosmic order itself. The concept of care—of one being tending to another's needs out of simple compassion—was considered almost quaint. A mortal weakness, they had called it. Something to be observed and catalogued, but never embraced.
Now, lying in this hospital bed while a stranger in blue scrubs checked his vital signs and adjusted his pillows, Demri was beginning to understand why the mortals valued it so highly.
"There's someone here to see you," the nurse added, glancing toward the door. "She's been waiting since visiting hours started. A young woman—Aylin, I think she said her name was. She's the one who found you last night."
Demri felt something shift in his chest. The pure one. The woman who had stopped her vehicle in the darkness, who had knelt beside him on the cold pavement and promised that help was coming. He had sensed the light in her even then, through the haze of exhaustion and despair. Now, in the harsh clarity of morning, he would have to face her directly.
*A pure one*, the curse whispered. *So soon. The universe provides.*
He pushed the voice away with an effort of will that left him slightly breathless. "Yes," he said. "I would like to see her."
The nurse nodded and departed, her soft-soled shoes making barely a sound against the linoleum floor. Demri used the brief respite to collect himself, pushing into a more upright position against the pillows and running his fingers through hair that felt matted and unfamiliar. He had no mirror, but he could imagine how he must look: pale, disheveled, wearing a hospital gown that left him feeling exposed and vulnerable. Not the dignified figure he had once presented in the halls of heaven.
*This is who you are now*, he reminded himself. *A broken thing. A fallen thing. Accept it.*
The door opened, and Aylin Kader stepped into the room.
She looked different in daylight. The harsh shadows of the previous night had concealed details that now presented themselves with startling clarity: the warm bronze of her skin, the slight upward tilt of her dark eyes, the way her black curls escaped from the hasty ponytail she had attempted to contain them in. She was dressed casually—jeans, a loose-fitting sweater in forest green, comfortable shoes that suggested she had not come directly from work. In one hand she carried a paper bag from which emanated the unmistakable aroma of food.
"You're awake," she said, stating the obvious with a smile that softened the clinical atmosphere of the room. "I was starting to worry they'd sedated you for the foreseeable future."
Demri found himself returning the smile before he could stop himself. "I'm told I was quite agitated when I arrived. The sedation may have been warranted."
"You kept talking about falling." Aylin crossed to the chair beside his bed and sat without waiting for an invitation, setting the paper bag on the small table that held a pitcher of water and an untouched cup of gelatin. "The paramedics thought you might have been in some kind of accident—maybe fell off a cliff or out of a moving vehicle. But they checked the area where I found you, and there's nothing like that for miles. Just farmland and forest."
"I know." Demri looked away, toward the window where pale morning light filtered through half-closed blinds. "I wish I could explain it. The falling felt... significant. Important. But when I try to focus on the details, they slip away."
A partial truth. The details were there, locked in the broken vault of his memory, but speaking them aloud would accomplish nothing except convince this woman that he was dangerously unstable. Better to maintain the fiction of amnesia until he understood more about his situation.
Aylin studied him for a long moment, her dark eyes thoughtful. Then she reached for the paper bag and began unpacking its contents: a large coffee in a cardboard cup, a wrapped sandwich that appeared to contain eggs and cheese, a small container of fruit.
"Hospital food is terrible," she said by way of explanation. "And you looked like you hadn't eaten in days when I found you. I figured you could use something that actually tastes like food."
The gesture was so unexpected, so casually generous, that Demri found himself momentarily at a loss for words. In heaven, such offerings would have been laden with obligation and expectation—a favor granted was a favor owed, an endless ledger of cosmic debts. But Aylin seemed to expect nothing in return. She simply pushed the coffee toward him with an encouraging nod.
"I don't know how you take it, so I got it black. There's sugar and cream in the bag if you need them."
Demri wrapped his hands around the cup, feeling its warmth seep into his palms. The sensation was unexpectedly pleasant. "Thank you," he said, and meant it more than she could possibly know. "You didn't have to do this. Any of this. You've already done more than most would."
"Most would have done the same." Aylin leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs at the ankle. "I just happened to be the one driving by at that particular moment. Right place, right time. Or wrong place, wrong time, depending on your perspective."
"And what is your perspective?"
She considered the question. "I think everything happens for a reason. Maybe not a reason we can understand right away, but a reason nonetheless. You were lying in that road, and I was the one who found you. That means something. I just don't know what yet."
*Faith*, Demri thought. *She speaks of faith without even realizing it.* The light within her seemed to pulse in response to her words, a soft golden glow that existed just beyond the threshold of mortal perception. It called to him on a level that bypassed conscious thought, stirring the hunger in ways he struggled to control.
He took a sip of coffee to cover his discomfort. The liquid was bitter but not unpleasant, and the warmth of it spread through his chest like a small flame.
"You said you would check on me today," he said, steering the conversation toward safer ground. "I didn't expect you to bring breakfast as well. Surely you have other obligations. Work, family..."
"I'm off today." Aylin shrugged. "And my family is... well, it's complicated. My parents are in Turkey—that's where they're from originally. They moved back about five years ago, after my grandmother got sick. They wanted me to come with them, but..." She trailed off, her expression growing distant. "But I felt like I was supposed to be here. Like there was something I still needed to do."
"And have you found it? This thing you're supposed to do?"
"I'm still looking." A small, self-deprecating smile. "In the meantime, I work at a community center downtown. Outreach programs, youth mentoring, that kind of thing. It's not glamorous, but it feels meaningful. Like I'm actually helping people, not just going through the motions."
Demri set down his coffee and reached for the sandwich. He was not entirely certain his mortal body knew how to process human food, but his stomach's insistent growling suggested it was worth trying. "A community center," he repeated. "That sounds... noble."
"Noble is a strong word." Aylin laughed, and the sound was unexpectedly warm. "Mostly it's a lot of paperwork and dealing with bureaucracy. But sometimes—sometimes you get to see someone turn their life around. A kid who was headed down a bad path finds their footing. A family that was about to fall apart learns how to communicate again. Those moments make all the rest of it worthwhile."
Noble, Demri thought again, though he did not say it aloud. In heaven, nobility had been defined by power and position, by one's proximity to the divine throne. But here, in this mortal realm, it seemed to mean something different. Something smaller but no less significant. The willingness to help without expectation of reward. The belief that every life held value.
It was, he realized, the polar opposite of corruption.
*Be careful*, the curse warned. *She is drawing you in. Making you weak. This is not the path to redemption.*
But what was the path to redemption? The curse insisted he must corrupt the pure ones to regain his celestial status, but surely that could not be the only way. Surely there existed some alternative, some loophole in the cosmic law that would allow him to break his chains without destroying the very light he had once been sworn to protect.
He bit into the sandwich and chewed slowly, buying himself time to think. The flavors were strange but not unpleasant—salt and fat and something that might have been pepper, all wrapped in bread that was slightly crispy on the outside and soft within. His stomach accepted the offering with grateful silence.
"Can I ask you something?" Aylin's voice cut through his reverie. "And feel free to tell me it's none of my business, because honestly, it probably isn't."
Demri swallowed. "Ask."
"Last night, when I found you..." She paused, choosing her words with visible care. "You said you fell. And I know you've said you don't remember the details, but the way you said it—it didn't sound like you were talking about a physical fall. It sounded like you were talking about something else. Something bigger."
The observation was more perceptive than Demri had expected. He set down the remains of his sandwich and met her gaze directly, searching for some indication that she was merely fishing for information. But her expression held nothing but genuine curiosity and, beneath that, a concern that seemed entirely unfeigned.
"You're right," he said slowly. "It's none of your business."
To her credit, Aylin did not flinch. "Fair enough. But if you ever do want to talk about it—whatever 'it' is—I'm a pretty good listener. Occupational hazard."
"You often find mysterious strangers lying in the road and offer them therapy?"
"More often than you'd think." She smiled, but there was something serious beneath the humor. "People fall all the time. Not off cliffs or out of cars, but in other ways. They lose their jobs, their relationships, their faith in themselves. And when they hit bottom, they need someone to help them back up. That's all I'm offering. A hand, if you want it."
A hand. Such a simple gesture, yet freighted with meaning that Demri was only beginning to understand. In heaven, falling was permanent. Once you descended, you did not return—that was the law, immutable and absolute. But here, among the mortals, falling seemed to be merely a phase. A temporary state that could be overcome with effort and assistance.
Could the same be true for him?
*No*, the curse insisted. *Your fall is different. Your fall is eternal. The only way up is through darkness.*
But for the first time since his judgment, Demri found himself questioning that certainty. If mortals could rise after falling, why couldn't he? If a hand extended in genuine compassion could lift someone from despair, why couldn't it lift him as well?
"Why?" The word emerged before he could stop it, rough with an emotion he could not name. "Why would you offer that to a stranger? Someone you know nothing about?"
Aylin was quiet for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was soft but steady. "Because I believe everyone deserves a second chance. No matter who they are or what they've done. I believe that people can change—that the darkness in us doesn't have to define us, if we're willing to fight it."
The words struck Demri like a physical blow. He stared at her, this mortal woman with her easy compassion and her unwavering faith, and felt something crack open in the frozen landscape of his heart. She could not know what she was saying, could not possibly understand the cosmic significance of her words. And yet they resonated with a truth that cut deeper than any celestial judgment.
*The darkness in us doesn't have to define us.*
Was that possible? Could he fight the curse, resist the hunger, find some path that did not require the corruption of innocent souls? Or was Aylin simply naive, speaking from the comfortable safety of a life untouched by true evil?
He would not know until he tried.
"Thank you," he said again, and his voice was steadier now. "For everything. The coffee, the food, the... the hand. Even if I don't know what to do with it yet."
Aylin's smile returned, warmer than before. "That's okay. You don't have to know right away. That's kind of the whole point of second chances—they give you time to figure things out."
---
They talked for another hour, drifting through topics with the easy randomness of new acquaintances. Aylin told him about her work at the community center—the teenagers she mentored, the families she counseled, the endless struggle for funding that seemed to define all charitable endeavors. Demri listened more than he spoke, partly because he had little to say that would not reveal his true nature, and partly because he found himself genuinely interested in her stories.
It had been a long time since he had listened to anyone. In heaven, conversations were formal affairs, structured around hierarchy and protocol. One spoke to convey information or to negotiate advantage; the idea of talking simply for the pleasure of connection was almost entirely foreign. But Aylin spoke as if connection were the entire point, as if sharing her experiences was itself a kind of gift.
And perhaps it was. Perhaps the mortals understood something that the celestials had forgotten: that existence was not merely about power and position, but about the bonds forged between souls.
"You're a good listener," Aylin observed, reaching the end of a particularly lengthy anecdote about a grant application that had gone spectacularly wrong. "Most people zone out when I start talking about budget spreadsheets."
"I find it fascinating," Demri said honestly. "The way you navigate obstacles, make alliances, work within systems that seem designed to frustrate you. It's... impressive."
"Impressive?" She laughed. "That's not a word I hear very often. 'Stubborn,' yes. 'Idealistic,' definitely. But impressive?"
"Perhaps I see things differently than most."
"I'm starting to get that impression." Aylin glanced at her phone, checking the time with a small grimace. "I should probably let you rest. The doctor will want to run more tests, and you'll need your strength for that. Hospital tests are exhausting."
Demri felt an unexpected pang of disappointment. The conversation had been a welcome distraction from the weight of his circumstances, and the prospect of returning to his own thoughts—and the whispered temptations of the curse—held little appeal.
"Will you come back?" The question emerged before he could stop it, more vulnerable than he had intended.
Aylin paused in the act of standing, her expression softening. "If you want me to."
"I do." The admission cost him something, though he could not have said exactly what. "I don't... I don't have anyone else. Not here. Not anywhere."
It was the truth, stripped bare of artifice. Whatever life he had possessed before the fall—the alliances, the connections, the complex web of celestial relationships—all of it had been severed in a single moment of judgment. He was alone in a way he had never been before, adrift in a world he did not understand, with nothing but a curse for company.
Aylin reached out and touched his hand. The contact was brief, lasting only a second or two, but it sent a shock through Demri's entire being. Her skin was warm, her touch gentle, and for one dizzying moment he could feel the light within her reaching toward him like a living thing.
*Corrupt her*, the curse demanded. *Take that light. Make it yours.*
He pulled his hand away, more abruptly than he had intended. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"It's okay." Aylin's expression held no judgment, only understanding. "I'll come back tomorrow. Same time. And I'll bring better coffee—there's a place near my apartment that does actual espresso, not whatever that was from the cafeteria."
Despite himself, Demri smiled. "I look forward to it."
She gathered her things and moved toward the door, pausing at the threshold to look back at him. "Get some rest. And try not to fall out of any more roads."
"I'll do my best."
She was gone before he could say anything more, the door closing behind her with a soft click that seemed to echo in the sudden silence. Demri stared at the spot where she had been standing, trying to process the whirlwind of sensations and emotions that her visit had stirred.
*Dangerous*, the curse whispered. *She is dangerous to you. Her light will blind you to your purpose.*
Perhaps. But as Demri lay back against the pillows and closed his eyes, he found that he did not care. For the first time since his fall, he had something to look forward to. Something that was not darkness or hunger or despair.
Something that felt almost like hope.
---
The tests came and went, a blur of blood draws and imaging scans and questions he answered with varying degrees of honesty. The doctors seemed puzzled by his results—he was, by all measurable standards, perfectly healthy, yet his records showed no history, no identity, no proof that he had ever existed at all. They spoke in hushed tones outside his door, debating what to do with the mysterious John Doe who had appeared on a rural road in the middle of the night.
Demri let them debate. He had larger concerns.
As the afternoon shadows lengthened across his hospital room, he turned his attention inward, trying to make sense of the fragmented memories that continued to surface without warning. The trial remained the clearest image—the cold faces of his former colleagues, the weight of accusations he could not refute, the terrible finality of the High Seraph's judgment. But there were other memories, too. Older ones, from the time before his ascension.
A village. Stone houses with thatched roofs. The smell of bread.
He had been human once. The realization, which had seemed abstract the night before, now carried a visceral weight. He had lived and worked and loved in the mortal world, had experienced the full spectrum of human existence before his soul was elevated to celestial status. He had forgotten all of it in the millennia since—or perhaps the memories had been deliberately suppressed, sealed away to prevent interference with his divine duties. But now, with his celestial nature stripped away, those ancient experiences were beginning to resurface.
A woman's face, blurred by time but still recognizable. Dark hair, kind eyes, a smile that made his chest ache with longing. Who had she been? A mother? A lover? A friend? The memory offered no answers, only the ghost of an emotion he could not name.
*You were weak then*, the curse observed. *Weak and mortal and insignificant. Is that what you want to become again?*
Demri did not answer. The truth was, he did not know what he wanted. The hunger within him craved corruption, craved the extinction of innocent light, but that desire felt foreign—imposed from outside rather than arising from within. His own desires, such as they were, remained unclear. He wanted to be free of the curse, yes. He wanted to understand why he had been condemned. He wanted...
He wanted to see Aylin again.
The thought surprised him, but he did not push it away. She represented something he had almost forgotten existed: genuine human connection, offered without condition or expectation. In her presence, the hunger had seemed more manageable, the curse's whispers easier to resist. Whether that was because of her light or simply because of her company, he could not say.
But he intended to find out.
---
Night fell over the hospital, bringing with it a quiet that was somehow different from the silence of heaven. There, silence had been absolute—a void of sound that pressed against consciousness like a physical weight. Here, silence was merely the absence of loud noise, filled with subtle sounds that created a kind of ambient music: the distant hum of machinery, the soft footsteps of night-shift staff, the occasional cough or murmur from other patients in nearby rooms.
Demri lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to this symphony of small sounds and thinking about the days ahead. The hospital would release him eventually—probably sooner rather than later, given their confusion about his identity and their desire to free up the bed. When that happened, he would need to navigate the mortal world on his own, without the safety net of medical staff and scheduled meals.
He would need money. Shelter. Some form of identification that would allow him to exist within human systems. He had none of these things, and no clear path to obtaining them.
But he had Aylin.
*You cannot rely on her*, the curse warned. *She will only slow you down. Distract you from your purpose.*
And yet she had offered to help. She had extended a hand, made a promise to return, demonstrated a generosity of spirit that seemed almost foreign to someone accustomed to celestial politics. Perhaps she could guide him through the practical challenges of mortal existence while he searched for a way to break his chains.
Or perhaps the curse was right, and she would only complicate matters.
Either way, Demri decided, he would see it through. The alternative—surrendering to the hunger, corrupting innocent souls, becoming the monster the celestials had condemned him to be—was not acceptable. He had spent millennia serving the light; he would not abandon it now, no matter what the curse demanded.
*You speak of resistance*, the voice mused, *but you do not understand the forces arrayed against you. The hunger will grow. It is already growing. And when it becomes strong enough, all your noble intentions will crumble to dust.*
Perhaps. But until that day came, Demri would fight. With every ounce of strength he possessed, with every fragment of his shattered divine nature, he would resist the darkness within.
And if Aylin's light could help him in that fight—well. Perhaps that was why he had been led to her in the first place.
Perhaps, despite everything, the universe still had a plan.
---
Morning came slowly, creeping through the blinds with the hesitant light of early spring. Demri had drifted in and out of sleep throughout the night, his dreams a confusing mixture of celestial memories and mortal sensations. He woke feeling neither rested nor exhausted, suspended in a strange middle state that seemed to characterize his new existence.
The nurse came to check his vitals, followed by a doctor who delivered the news Demri had been expecting: he was being discharged. His tests showed nothing wrong, his vital signs were stable, and without any identification or insurance, the hospital could not justify keeping him any longer. They would give him a list of resources—shelters, social services, organizations that helped people in his situation—but beyond that, he was on his own.
"Is there anyone we can call?" the doctor asked, not unkindly. "Family, friends, anyone who might be able to help you get back on your feet?"
Demri thought of Aylin, but hesitated. He did not want to impose on her generosity more than he already had. She had promised to visit, but that was different from taking responsibility for a homeless stranger with no memory and no prospects.
"No," he said. "There's no one."
The doctor nodded, making a note on his chart. "Well, the discharge paperwork will take a few hours. You're welcome to stay until it's complete. And the cafeteria is open if you need something to eat."
"Thank you."
The doctor departed, leaving Demri alone with his thoughts and the growing certainty that he had made a mistake. He should have mentioned Aylin—should have asked the hospital to contact her, let her know he was being released. Instead, pride or fear or some combination of both had kept him silent, and now he faced the prospect of walking out those doors with nothing but the clothes on his back.
*Assuming they even give you clothes*, he thought grimly. The hospital gown was hardly suitable for the outside world.
A knock at the door interrupted his spiraling thoughts. Before he could respond, it opened, and Aylin stepped inside carrying two cups of coffee and a bag that smelled of fresh pastries.
"I heard you're being discharged," she said without preamble. "The nurses told me when I came in. So I figured we should talk about what happens next."
Relief flooded through Demri with an intensity that surprised him. "You came back."
"I said I would." She set the coffee and pastries on the table, then turned to face him directly. "Look, I know this is going to sound crazy. We've known each other for less than twenty-four hours, and most of that time you've been unconscious or delirious. But I've been thinking about it all night, and... well, I have a spare room."
Demri stared at her, certain he had misunderstood. "A spare room?"
"In my apartment. It's small, and the heating's unreliable, but it's better than a shelter. And the community center where I work has resources—job training, counseling, help with documentation. We could get you set up with a temporary ID, maybe find you some work..." She trailed off, suddenly self-conscious. "Sorry. I'm doing that thing where I plan other people's lives without asking if they want me to. It's a bad habit."
"You're offering me a place to stay." Demri's voice came out flat, stripped of emotion by sheer disbelief. "A stranger you found lying in the road. You're inviting me into your home."
"When you put it that way, it does sound a bit mad." Aylin's smile was rueful. "But like I said—I believe everyone deserves a second chance. And you don't have anywhere else to go. So... yes. I'm offering. No strings attached, no expectations. Just a roof over your head until you figure out your next move."
The curse stirred, whispering warnings about vulnerability and dependence and the dangers of allowing oneself to be drawn into a mortal's orbit. But Demri pushed it aside with an ease that surprised him. This was not corruption; this was compassion. And if he could not tell the difference between the two, then he truly was lost.
"Why?" he asked, echoing his question from the day before. "Why would you do this for someone you don't know?"
Aylin's expression softened. She moved closer, close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes. "Because when I was sixteen, my family lost everything. We came to this country with nothing—no money, no connections, barely any English. And someone helped us. A stranger, just like you. She didn't have any reason to, but she did it anyway. Gave us a place to stay, helped my parents find work, taught me that kindness doesn't have to make sense to be real."
She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was quiet but fierce. "I never forgot that. And I promised myself that when I had the chance to help someone else—really help them, not just throw money at a problem—I would. So here I am. Keeping that promise."
Demri was silent for a long moment, processing her words. The cynical part of him—the part that had survived millennia of celestial politics—searched for the hidden angle, the ulterior motive that surely lurked beneath her generosity. But he found nothing. Just sincerity, pure and uncomplicated, radiating from her like warmth from a flame.
"All right," he said at last. "I accept. And I promise you, Aylin—whatever I can do to repay this kindness, I will."
Her smile returned, brighter than before. "Let's start with you eating some breakfast. Then we'll figure out the rest."
She handed him a coffee and a pastry—something flaky and filled with chocolate—and settled into the chair beside his bed as if she had every intention of staying until the discharge was complete. And as Demri bit into the pastry and felt the sweetness spread across his tongue, he allowed himself to believe, just for a moment, that perhaps the fall had not been an ending after all.
Perhaps it was a beginning.