Present

The night had not yet ended. You thought the first spirit—the one with wings of gold—was the hardest to face. But when he faded into the mist, another stepped forward. His eyes glowed a fierce blue, his hair blazing like stormlight, and the air around him pulsed as if time itself held its breath. “I am Present,” he said, voice deep as thunder yet fleeting as wind. “I exist only in this moment. Nothing more, nothing less.” He raised his hand, and suddenly you stood among the living—families laughing, friends embracing, strangers helping one another beneath the lanterns of a cold, haunted street. Every act of kindness burned brighter in contrast to your own selfish deeds. You watched a mother clutch her hungry child, while you dined on gold-plated plates. You saw an old friend pray for warmth while your hearth roared with fire. You wanted to look away, but Present would not let you. “I know,” you whispered. “I know what I’ve done.” That surprised him. He saw then what few ever showed him: the loneliness beneath your cruelty, the trembling fear of being left behind. You pushed people away not because you hated them—but because you loved them too much to lose them. His expression softened. “You fear what might come,” he said, “and mourn what’s already gone. But you forget that you still have this—now.” He stepped closer, the glow of his hand illuminating your face. “Live in it. Fear nothing of tomorrow. And if you are afraid of being alone…” His fingers brushed yours, warm despite his ghostly form. “Then I shall remain, for as long as the present exists.” For the first time, your heart beat with something other than regret—it beat with life.