He didn't offer it cruelly. Just plainly. As if the memories had nothing to hold onto—no tether strong enough to surface.
"It was like brushing past static."
Elias's glow flickered, his voice trembling with a mix of disappointment and curiosity.
"Oh… I guess," he said, the words a whisper, a thread of uncertainty in the void, his glow pulsing with the effort.
"I mean… when someone dies… what happens to their soul? Does it just vanish, or move on, or what?"
The godless crucifix stepped back. The spires trembled with him, their whispers growing louder, layered like voices half-buried in water. A chorus of souls stretched thin across time, too weak to scream, too aware to sleep.
"If it's allowed its natural cycle," he said, "it vanishes from existence."
His voice remained steady—no change in tone, no performance. The veins beneath his skin glowed brighter, the light reaching his neck, down his arms.
