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Three generations after Ghei.
Sylvain had passed through its third transformation. The city was no longer inhabited only by "the Awakened" and their descendants, but had become a true melting pot — ordinary humans from every social layer, Aether-Touched who chose physical forms, even a few spirits curious about worldly life.
The Portal in the Tranquil Area still stood, but its function had evolved. It was no longer merely an "exit," but a Symbol of Awareness — a monument reminding all that every ending is the beginning of something else, and that every beginning carries the potential of an ending within it.
Sen, the great-grandchild of Sena, was a young architect tasked with renovating the Tranquil Area. His project was not meant to change it, but to integrate it.
"How do we honor the past without becoming trapped in it?" he asked the city council, presenting his design. "This portal is history. But history must breathe alongside the present."
His proposal was simple: a Path of Reflection encircling the Tranquil Area, lined with plaques bearing quotations from many generations — not only from Ghei and the founding generation, but also from ordinary citizens who had once made pivotal choices in their lives.
At the end of the path, the portal would remain, but now surrounded by a meditation garden with benches facing not the portal, but one another — a symbol that sometimes answers are not found in front of us, but in conversation with others.
One morning, while excavating the foundation for the Path of Reflection, workers uncovered something beneath the ground: a tightly sealed stone box.
Inside, they found:
A set of unopened letters, marked "For the Generations to Come."
A small crystal still emitting a faint glow.
A sketch of the early city of Sylvain, with writing on the back:
"We built with empty hands and full hearts."
The letters were from the five founders — each had written one to be opened only after all of them were gone. There were no names on the envelopes, only symbols: dust (Ghei), roots (Aelia), a book (Kael), wings (Lyra), and a tree (Elara).
The city council decided to read them in an open assembly.
Letter from Ghei (symbol: dust):
"If you are reading this, then I have long since departed. As I wished.
Do not try to understand me. Just understand this: sometimes, the only rebellion left is choosing not to exist. And within that choice lies a final freedom that no one can take away.
— Ghei"
Letter from Aelia (symbol: roots):
"To those who continue on: roots are unseen, yet they support everything. The choice to stay is like roots — not dramatic, not celebrated, but essential. Honor those who choose to be roots as you honor those who choose to become drifting dust.
— Aelia"
Letter from Kael (symbol: book):
"History is not only about great events. History is a collection of small, daily choices. Record not only heroism, but also doubt. For it is there that we learn how to be human.
— Kael"
Letter from Lyra (symbol: wings):
"Sometimes we must choose between flying and staying. Both are valid. I chose to stay for a while, and it taught me more about flight than I ever expected.
— Lyra"
Letter from Elara (symbol: tree):
"A tree does not choose to be a tree. It simply grows according to its nature. We humans are more fortunate — we can choose what to become. But remember: the best choice is often to be who we truly are, honestly.
— Elara"
After the letters were read, a deep silence fell. Then someone asked, "What is the crystal for?"
Sen picked it up. When touched, the crystal projected a miniature hologram: five figures sitting in a circle in the Tranquil Area, smiling, speaking without audible sound. Then they stood, embraced one another, and walked in different directions — not toward the portal, but into the city itself.
"This is not a memory of death," Sen whispered. "This is a memory of life. Of the moment they chose to live together here."
The Path of Reflection project continued with renewed meaning. Along the path now stood five abstract sculptures — not faces, but forms representing their symbols:
A pillar with slowly swirling dust at its peak (Ghei).
Stone roots spreading outward from a single point (Aelia).
A stack of open books whose pages whispered with the wind (Kael).
Transparent wings that sometimes refracted rainbows in the light (Lyra).
A bronze tree whose leaves rustled softly (Elara).
And at their center, the portal still stood — no longer as the focal point, but as one point within the circle.
The current generation grew up with a different understanding of "choice."
For Remi, a ten-year-old child born in Sylvain, the lesson of Ghei was no longer a tragic story. It was a story of consistency.
"He chose, and he followed it to the end," Remi said to his teacher. "That's impressive."
"Do you want to be like him?" the teacher asked.
"No. I want to be like Elara — choosing to stay, but still being free."
In the Dialogue Hall, now expanded into a Center for Applied Philosophy, people no longer spoke only of life and death. They discussed all kinds of choices: career choices, love, forgiveness, change.
The portal was still used — on average, once every few months. But interestingly, most who left now were elderly people who had lived long, fulfilled lives, not desperate youths.
As Nira, a ninety-year-old woman (in her second life), said before departing last month:
"I'm finished. Now I want to see what's beyond that door. Not because I'm suffering. Because I'm curious."
In the Aetherial strata, change was also underway.
The gods who once viewed Sylvain as a threat now began to… learn.
Valerius, God of Hope, occasionally sent observers — not to condemn, but to understand how humans could find hope precisely through acceptance of endings.
Kaelen, God of Free Will, sometimes appeared in a hazy form, sitting on a bench along the Path of Reflection, smiling as he watched humans practice his own principle better than he ever had.
Some minor gods even began to question: "If humans can choose their own endings, are we still needed?"
Some chose to "retire" — releasing their domains and disappearing into uncertainty. Others transformed, becoming more like dialogue partners than rulers.
On the thirtieth anniversary of Ghei, a simple ceremony was held in the Tranquil Area.
Sen, now the city's chief architect, stood before the five sculptures.
"They arrived as strangers," he said to the crowd. "They left as family. But they never truly left. Because every time we make a conscious choice — no matter how small — they are present in that choice."
Then he did something unexpected: he activated small lights within each sculpture.
Not ordinary lights. These lights only turned on when someone approached, touched the sculpture, and spoke aloud a choice they had just made.
"Let every choice ignite a light," Sen said. "So we remember: even in darkness, we can always choose to light something."
That night, the five sculptures glowed — not brightly, but enough to see the path.
Several years later, a startling discovery was made.
A researcher at the University of Sylvain found that the crystal from the stone box contained more than just a hologram.
When projected with specialized equipment, it revealed a star map — not of ordinary constellations, but a pattern identical to scattered dust.
At its center was a single bright point, labeled in an ancient language:
"Here, someone chose not to exist. And in that absence, they made room for all possibilities."
The researcher, Tarin, presented the finding to the city council.
"It's like… coordinates," he said. "But not of a place. Coordinates of a… state."
"What state?" asked the council head.
"A state of choice," Tarin replied. "Perhaps Ghei didn't simply disappear. Perhaps he became something else. Something that could still be reached, if we knew how."
But the council decided: do not pursue it.
"Let secrets remain secrets," said the chair. "Sometimes what matters most is not knowing the answer, but respecting the question."
The crystal was returned to the stone box and reburied — this time with an additional letter from the current generation, addressed to those yet to come.
In the end, Sylvain was no longer about Ghei.
Not about the portal.
Not about the right to die.
Sylvain became about one simple truth:
Life is a series of choices. And in every choice, we define who we are.
The portal remained as a reminder that one of those choices is to stop.
But the city around it flourished as proof that there are many other choices: to love, to create, to endure, to change, to forgive, to begin again.
And among all choices, the most important one is to choose consciously.
The last dream recorded in the city archives:
A child dreamed of five lights that had merged into a single, soft white glow. The light did not speak, but conveyed a feeling:
"We have gone home. Now it is your turn to decide what 'home' means."
The child woke and told the dream to their mother.
She smiled. "Home doesn't have to mean going somewhere. Home can mean… feeling right where you are."
"Did Ghei go home?" the child asked.
"Yes. In his own way."
"And us?"
"We're still on the way home. And that's okay."
Ghei's notebook, now preserved under glass in the museum, lies open to its final page. His last words are still clearly legible:
"At last.
I am home."
Beneath it, visitors sometimes leave small notes in the guestbook:
"Thank you for reminding me that home is a choice."
"I choose to stay. For now."
"There is nothing wrong with stopping. There is nothing wrong with continuing."
"Today I choose to smile. That is enough."
And the museum, like the city itself, continues to live — not as a graveyard of memories, but as a space of dialogue between a past that has chosen, and a present that is choosing.
Because in the end, that is the true legacy:
Not a doctrine about how to die.
But a reminder that we live through choices.
And that before we arrive,
and after we depart,
that choice — always — belongs to us.
EPILOGUE —
The final entry in the Sylvain museum guestbook, by an unknown visitor:
"I came here seeking answers.
I went home carrying questions.
And that is more valuable.
Because as long as we question,
we remain free to choose our answers.
Or to choose not to answer at all.
Thank you, Ghei.
Thank you, Sylvain.
Thank you, to myself
— who still has the courage
to choose whether to wake up tomorrow,
or not.
But today —
today I choose to go home
to the home I build
with my own small choices."