He kneels in the quiet after the storm not to pray, but to breathe one last truth: that even the strongest can only carry so much silence before it starts to bleed. The arrows are not what kill him. It’s the memory of all the times he stood tall and said, “I’m fine.” It’s the sword left by someone he once trusted to watch his back. It’s the loneliness of being everyone’s protector and no one’s priority. The ground beneath him doesn’t judge. It just listens, as if it has seen a thousand like him before heroes turned ghosts, hearts turned stone, light turned tired. But even now, there’s something sacred about his fall. Because to fall is to finally be honest about how heavy living can be. Echoes: How many arrows have you learned to hide behind a smile and who will ever know you were bleeding?