Even now, Michael struggled with it. He focused, extending his hand and willing the faint glow to form between his fingers. At first, there was nothing—just the cool air brushing his skin. Then, slowly, the Light began to take shape, a dim outline quivering with energy. It felt warm yet weightless, like the thrum of a faint pulse. He tried to guide it forward, channeling it toward his opposite palm, but the connection wavered, faltered. The Light sputtered and dissolved into nothingness.
“Focus,” Jonata called, his voice cutting sharply through Michael’s thoughts.
Michael gritted his teeth, irritation flaring. “I am focusing.”
“Not hard enough,” Jonata replied, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smirk. He bounced two billiard balls in his hands, his restless energy a direct contrast to Michael’s deliberate concentration.
Michael exhaled, steadying himself. Once again, he reached inward, searching for the spark that Jonata had helped him define. This time, the Light responded quicker—a flicker, then a growing glow. He felt it shift, pulsing faintly as it stretched toward his left hand. For one brief moment, it stabilized, shining steadily between his palms. Excitement surged within him. Finally— But just as quickly, the Light faltered, slipping out of his grasp.
Jonata’s laugh was sharp and unrelenting. “Not bad… for someone who’s still fumbling at beginner level.”
Michael glared at him, jaw tight. “At least I’m trying.”
Jonata leaned against the table, rolling one of the billiard balls between his fingers. “That’s the problem. You think too much. You’re so caught up in trying to control it that you can’t let it flow.”
“And what’s your excuse for not being advanced yet?” Michael shot back, his voice sharper than he intended.
The grin on Jonata’s face faltered. For the first time, he looked away, his expression hard to read. “I know my limits,” he said softly, his usual bravado giving way to something more vulnerable. “Some things… they’re not as easy as they seem.”
Michael blinked, surprised by the sudden change in tone. He had never seen this side of Jonata before, and it left him unsure of how to respond.
Jonata straightened, his usual confidence snapping back into place as if the moment hadn’t happened. “Let’s go again,” he said firmly. “This time, stop chasing the Light. Let it come to you. It’s like breathing—you can’t force it.”
Michael frowned, his gaze shifting to the faint threads of Light that had already begun to dissolve. Maybe Jonata was right, but not in the way he intended. The problem wasn’t effort—it was the mindset behind it. Michael’s instinct was to analyze every detail, to map out every step before taking action. Yet, if the Light was a connection, it wasn’t something to conquer or control—it was already there, a thread running through him, waiting to be lived rather than forced. Action didn’t need thought. Connection didn’t need planning. He just had to let himself exist within it.
But as much as he tried to embrace that idea, a nagging doubt lingered. This wasn’t new—it was him, always. Too slow, too cautious. A freight train lumbering along while others, like Jonata, raced ahead like Formula 1 cars. He let the thought play in his mind, a familiar refrain. How many opportunities had he let pass because he couldn’t just do something without overthinking it?
His frustration flared as he tried to push the Light again. Of course, it faltered—like so many things he’d tried before. A small voice in the back of his mind whispered, This is just another thing you’ll fail at.
But then Jonata’s words surfaced again: Stop chasing the Light. Let it come to you. Maybe it wasn’t about racing ahead like Jonata. Maybe it wasn’t about competing with him—or anyone. Maybe, just maybe, being a freight train wasn’t the worst thing. A train, after all, stayed steady and carried its load to the end, no matter how heavy. Perhaps the Light didn’t need a race car or a train; it needed someone who understood that the connection already existed.
He took a breath. A long, deep breath. This time, he didn’t force it. He didn’t try to overanalyze or direct the Light; he just let himself feel. And as he did, something shifted. It was faint at first, a gentle vibration at the edge of his senses. Then it grew, a warmth spreading up his arm, radiating outward. The Light shimmered softly through his palms, pulsing in rhythm with his breath. For the first time, it felt natural—like it had always been there, waiting for him to notice.
“Better. A lot better,” Jonata said, his voice cutting through the moment.
Michael opened his eyes, seeing the glow between his hands. It wasn’t perfect, but it was steady—alive. He let out a breath, this time not out of frustration but relief.
“See? Told you it was all about letting go,” Jonata added, with an annoyingly smug grin.
Michael rolled his eyes but allowed himself the smallest flicker of pride. He looked at Jonata, the gratitude unspoken but understood.
Jonata tossed one of the billiard balls into the air, catching it effortlessly before pointing at him. “Go on. Try again. Let the Light pulse through your body. Play with it.”
Taking another deep breath, he closed his eyes, letting his other senses take over. The gentle tingling of the Light in his palm felt more vivid now, unburdened by overanalysis. It wasn’t a question of directing it, but of embracing it. Slowly, instinctively, Michael reached out—not to control, but to connect. The Light responded almost immediately, shimmering faintly but more stable than before.
He let it flow, guiding it up his arm, through his chest, and down toward his stomach. The warmth spread, subtle and soothing, until it reached lower. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he couldn’t help but chuckle at the odd sensation.
“You’re disgusting!” Jonata’s voice slapped him out of concentration. Well, it was enjoyable, Michael admitted to himself, still struggling to shake off that sensation.
“Judging by that expression,” Jonata said, raising an eyebrow with a grin, “you were really enjoying yourself there. Try keeping it professional next time.”
Michael’s eyes snapped open, his face flushing as he quickly redirected the Light back to his hands.
“Shut up,” he muttered, though he couldn’t suppress a sheepish smile. And then, progress was progress, however it came.
***
“Your mother speaks fluent Italian, right?” Jonata asked at the end of their training session, his tone casual, yet his words seemed deliberate. This isn’t like him, Michael thought, a flicker of unease sparking in the back of his mind. Something’s going on.
“Listen. I need to tell you something.”
Michael raised an eyebrow, curiosity simmering beneath his guarded expression. “Go ahead.”
"But stay calm, okay?"
Michael widened his eyes. Asking him to stay calm was like asking Bella Poarch not to pose in front of her phone’s camera. It came naturally to him.
"Brace yourself," Jonata continued. "When my mom told me there was someone else—here—someone like us, she said she’d met her in Rome, at some sort of school."
"So? I told you, my mom’s Italian."
"You're not listening. I said some sort of school."
"Oh..." Some sort of school, coming from Jonata, could only mean... "A school... for the Light?"
"Yes, there’s a community of Illuminates in Rome—or something like that. And your mom was part of it."
Michael scoffed. Obviously, Jonata was mistaken. His mother had never shown any sign of being capable of illumination.
"If she has the Light—and I’m sure she doesn’t—she definitely doesn’t know how to use it."
"She does. And more than that..."
Michael started feeling irritated. It couldn’t be true. Yet Jonata insisted; he seemed genuinely convinced.
"My mom told me a lot about her. She couldn’t have made it all up!"
"Fine, let’s say she could illuminate. So what? Maybe she forgot about it. Maybe she knew how but wasn’t very skilled..."
Jonata burst out laughing.
"What the hell are you laughing at?"
"No, it’s just that talking to you is like... no, sorry, you’re right," Jonata forced himself to be serious. "If you didn’t know, you didn’t know."
Michael began feeling defensive. As usual, almost without realizing it, he started scratching his head and shifting his weight from foot to foot. He forced himself to stop—he was uncomfortable. He wanted to leave. Just like that time at Erica’s party, in the garden, before Jonata had made him duel.
"I’m not sure I want to know," he said and headed toward the coat rack to grab his jacket. "It’s late—I need to go."
"No, stay. For my mom, your mom was more than just a friend."
More than a friend? "I don’t want to know this. Whatever she did before meeting my dad..."
“What? No, that’s not what I mean, you moron!” Jonata replied, looking him straight in the eyes as if he were about to illuminate him. "Michael, your mother was her teacher. Not only did she teach at that school, but she was famous. Very famous." That word echoed in his mind—famous, famous... "A kind of genius in the world of the Light. Known worldwide, according to my mom."
Michael denied it, more to himself than to Jonata, unwilling to accept it as truth.
"No, no, it’s not possible! She’s always let me illuminate her—her or my dad."
"Exactly! Don’t you find it strange that they never noticed?"
"Then why not stop me?"
"Because you weren’t—and aren’t—anywhere near her level. You pose no threat to her!"
Unfortunately, that made sense, and Michael couldn’t find a way to counter it.
"Not only that—maybe that was exactly her intention. Maybe this was her method of teaching you!"
"But I can’t do anything!"
"Not true. It’s tough to admit, but as soon as I taught you the basics, you started making incredible progress. You were ready to start—no doubt about it. Look how much better you’ve become in just a few days. And I’m definitely not a good teacher!"
He was definitely right.
But then... Could it be true? Could it be that his parents—his dad included—had worn masks all this time? And then... He couldn’t believe it. He had the Light; his mother was a teacher... He could’ve been amazing by now, even better than Jonata. He could’ve had total control of his life—not be the loser he felt himself to be... No more insecurity, no more freight trains and useless thoughts... He could’ve conquered the world! He’d wasted so much of his life on pointless overthinking.
Anger surged within him. While Jonata was speaking, Michael barely listened. He felt energy coursing through him, the urge to run home, scream, punch something. For God’s sake—he’d make them pay.
***
Michael stormed home, his mind ablaze with anger. In his head, fists slammed into walls so hard they could break through. They’ll pay for this, he thought, letting the rage build. But then, as always, doubt crept in. What if Mom has a good reason? Maybe the Light was dangerous—some kind of brain-melting illness, like in The Butterfly Effect. Or maybe the Light was illegal, tied to some secret society thing like in Shadowhunters. If it’s illegal, then what has Mom been risking all these years? Prison? Worse?
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
He rubbed the back of his neck, the tension creeping in with every thought. Or maybe Jonata is just full of it, and Mom isn’t a teacher at all. But no, that didn’t add up. It all fit together too perfectly.
There it was—his family garden. The scene of the crime. The place where lies had grown like weeds. He felt a flicker of calm, but his plan remained intact: burst inside, slam the door so hard it would terrify not just his parents, but the neighbors, the mailman, and maybe even the squirrels in the yard. Then unleash a tirade of insults, flailing his arms like a chimp who’d just lost his favorite banana. Perfect.
Through the garden window, he spotted his parents, reading by the armchairs like they did every evening. Always the same. All those years wasted behind a lie. He grabbed the handle and stepped inside.
He tried to slam the door, but the air cushion ruined it, softening the impact. Seriously? He thought bitterly. No satisfaction. Still, the sound was enough to be noticed. He heard dishes clink in the kitchen—loud enough to confirm his parents had heard too.
He dropped his jacket to the floor. Rebellion, step one. Then he kept his shoes on. Step two: maximum disrespect. As he reached the living room doorway, his parents were waiting—more curious than scared.
So much for his grand entrance.
The freight train had passed, the gates were up. Time to act.
“We need to talk.”
“So it seems,” his father interjected with a smile.
“Not with you. With her.”
“Of course, we can talk,” his mother replied, her tone calm and measured. “But first, take off your shoes, please. Then you can sit here with us.”
This time, Michael snapped. No acting. He slammed his fists against the back of the couch, hitting the cushion so hard he felt the wood beneath and the sting in his hands—a sensation that only fueled his energy.
“No, we talk now! I hate this... this calm of yours!”
His father urged him to use a calmer tone, but Michael exploded further. “Quiet, Dad! Enough! I need to talk to Mom—just her. Leave us alone.” Michael shot his father a menacing glare. If necessary, he’d illuminate him.
“What the—”
Michael cut his mother off with a sharp gesture, turning his focus to his father. The tingling energy of the Light surged in his palm, hot and alive. “I said, out.”
Edgar raised a brow, utterly unshaken. “Whatever you want to ask your mother—”
“Don’t make me do this.”
Michael felt the Light building, rising through his chest and down his arm, pulsing with raw power. He held it there, savoring its intensity, his fingers twitching with the urge to release it. His arm lifted instinctively, poised to strike.
His father stood calm, his lips curling into a faint, knowing smile that threw Michael off balance.
“There’s no need for that,” Edgar said, his tone steady but firm. “We taught you better than to rely on force.”
Michael’s fist clenched tighter, his grip on the Light faltering as confusion swept over him. Was it his father’s words—or his mother’s subtle influence? His thoughts scrambled to make sense of it.
“I know what you’re feeling,” Edgar continued, his eyes meeting Michael’s without flinching. “The anger, the frustration. But it won’t help you here. If you let me stay, I can help.”
Michael grit his teeth. “Of course, you know about the Light too. I’m not stupid.”
“Then you’ve probably guessed I’ve spent my life studying it,” Edgar said plainly. “Even though I don’t possess it, I understand it well.”
Michael scoffed. “And yet, I’ve always illuminated you!”
Edgar chuckled lightly, his calm never wavering. “And, like now, I’ve always known how to avoid it. A step back, a well-timed word—that’s all it takes. I’m your father. I know you better than you realize.”
Michael’s glare shifted toward his mother. She was watching him with that same maddening calm, utterly unbothered by the storm in the room.
“You’ve improved a lot,” she said, showing no emotion. “I think you’re ready.”
Michael froze, her words hitting him like a sudden gust of wind. Ready? The thought echoed in his mind, tangled with disbelief. How could she say that now, after keeping him in the dark for so long? His shock gave way to an uneasy doubt—was she setting him up for another game, another vague lesson? The faint glow of the Light in his palm flickered and died as his frustration surged again. If I was ready, why didn’t she tell me sooner?
“Please, sit with us. This will take some time,” his father suggested, his voice gentle, his gestures inviting him to the armchair.
Michael was exhausted. The element of surprise had faded. The grand spectacle his anger had fueled in his mind now seemed absurd and meaningless. Willingly, he stepped off the stage where he’d tried to play the roaring hero. Like it or not, he’d never be a great actor. Deep down, he felt more at ease among the spectators, away from the spotlight. He just wanted to listen.
“Why? Why did you keep this from me all this time?”
“We had our reasons. But maybe it’s best to start at the beginning,” said Edgar, handing the conversation over to his mother with a gesture.
“What’s important is that you know…”
“That you did it for my own good?” Michael interrupted, his tone sharp.
“No. That we didn’t hide anything from you.”
“Ridiculous. I knew nothing about the Light until a week ago. And you!” He pointed at his mother, his fury flaring again. “You were even a teacher!”
Maria’s sharp gaze pierced him. He had rarely seen that level of severity in her eyes. It was the kind of sternness you’d expect from a teacher addressing her students, he thought; a side of her he barely knew—if he knew it at all.
“First of all, calm yourself. This outburst is deeply disappointing.”
“Education and discipline—what does that matter now? We’re talking about the Light.”
“It matters. A great deal. And I don’t just mean discipline. But first, tell me—how do you know I’m a teacher?”
“You were. When you lived in Rome.”
“Wrong. I still am.”
“What do you mean? You don’t teach any classes; you don’t have students!”
“That’s not entirely true, but I’ll explain it to you another time. Besides, there’s you. In a way, unconventional for those used to traditional schools, but I’ve also been teaching you.”
“And what, exactly, have you taught me?”
“First, answer my question. I need to know so I can decide how to proceed.”
“Jonata told me.”
“And who is Jonata? Ingrid’s son?”
Michael noticed the faintest flicker of a smile on his mother’s face, directed at his father.
“Yes, him.”
“Of course, I always knew this moment would come.”
Edgar shrugged. “The boy has a brain, Maria. It was inevitable he’d put two and two together.”
She nodded silently to her husband. Michael was losing his patience.
“I’ve answered your question. Now it’s your turn.”
“You’re learning to control illumination—congratulations,” Maria began. “You could have illuminated your father in a split second if you wanted to, but you played with the sensations. You’ve refined your technique, but this is only the beginning. Technique, remember, is as crucial as it is dangerous. Illumination isn’t a game—it’s a responsibility. Like any form of power, it can enslave you.”
“Enough with the lectures—that’s not what I asked.”
“But that’s why I said I was disappointed in you a moment ago. You lost control. You tried to assert yourself without any real reason. It’s a good start—for letting your power control you, instead of the other way around.”
“Fine, but I’m still waiting for an answer.”
“That was your answer! You asked why we kept it hidden—I told you, we didn’t hide anything.”
“What your mother is trying to say,” Edgar added, “is that even though we didn’t refine your technique, we’ve been teaching you since you were a child—what illumination is, how to control it, and how to use it best.”
Michael began to grasp the deeper meaning of those words. Memories of his father’s discussions flooded back—about how the mind exists both inside and outside of us, in the world, in the continuous relationships of all things, all connected by an unbreakable thread. It was clear now—he had been speaking of the Light. And his mother... she had let him illuminate her at times, but only when she wanted him to. He had never succeeded in public, for example. And his father… whenever Michael grew angry, Edgar would systematically step away or find a way to calm him down, keeping him from illuminating. They had always kept him in check, yet taught him at the same time. In truth—though he struggled to believe it—he had been learning every day of his life without even knowing it. Yet all this only made the situation feel even more absurd.
“Then why didn’t you just tell me the Light existed? My whole life, I’ve felt strange, like an outsider.”
“I’m sorry, Michael,” his father said. “But that isn’t our fault. You’re different. It’s an inevitable feeling—not just for those who have the Light. Remember the laughter when I presented my first book here in Rosenfield?”
“You could’ve just not written the book—or not presented it here if you wanted to avoid the laughter. I have the Light; I can’t do anything about it. And I’ve always felt out of place.”
“Well, welcome to real life. If you’re not a complete fool, that’s how it is for everyone,” his father replied, earning a sharp glance from Maria. Lowering his gaze, Edgar quickly hid a grin.
Maria tried to steer the conversation back to Michael’s education. “Everything we’ve done was to protect you from arrogance and pride.”
“Arrogance and pride? What do you take me for, a little Hitler? I wasn’t about to go around illuminating people to punish them for annoying me—or to get free candy from the store.”
His father laughed. All in all, Michael thought, the tension in the room had started to ease, and he felt less wound up. He stifled a laugh as he remembered, just minutes earlier on his way home, how he’d thought the Light might help him dominate the world…
“Just listen. Look at the world—politics, TikTok, sports. It’s all competition, all about proving you’re better. What races could you win if you’re the only one running? Success means nothing when you forget how much you rely on others to achieve it.”
Michael scoffed. “Fine, so success isn’t everything. What does this have to do with the Light?”
Edgar leaned forward, his voice steady but intense. “Look at how society, school, and the media teach us. It’s all about chasing success, wealth, visibility—being better, faster, louder. But success is addictive. The more you taste it, the more you want it. And the more you want it, the more it controls you.”
“So what?”
Edgar gestured emphatically. “Once you reach success, what have you really achieved? You’ve become a tool of your audience—they demand more of the same, even if you don’t want to give it anymore. You work harder to keep them satisfied, until they become strangers to you. Worse, you become a stranger to yourself.”
Michael frowned, his irritation mounting. Edgar’s point was hard to dismiss, but it felt too bleak for his liking. His mind flickered to all the stories he’d heard—great artists who spiraled into depression, turned to drugs, or even took their own lives. Is that what he’s talking about? The thought unsettled him, though he wasn’t ready to admit it.
“Jeez Louise, Edgar, you’re so dark sometimes.” Maria interrupted, shaking her head with exaggerated disbelief.
“Yes, Maria, but Michael needs to hear it,” Edgar replied, undeterred. “The Light is a tool like any other. And tools can enslave you. Use it selfishly, and it takes control. But use it wisely, and you take hold of the moment—your life. That’s what we’ve been teaching you.”
Finally, Edgar leaned back in his armchair, clearly satisfied with his speech.
Michael exchanged a glance with Maria. They both burst into laughter, the tension in the room easing further.
“Edgar, you wouldn’t stop!” Maria cut in before Michael could, saying exactly what he was about to. “If you talk like that to your students, I can already imagine the yawns. When you get on your soapbox, you’re like an overexcited puppy splashing into the sea. Isn’t that an abuse of your success, of your role as a professor?”
Edgar laughed. “Touché, my dear. A puppy, huh?”
“The philosophy professor!” she teased.
“One of the good ones, though!”
Michael watched, appalled, as his parents bantered as if he weren’t there. Who even used the word “touché” anymore? Who joked like that—so contrived? How could these utterly ordinary people—too ordinary for his taste, and so full of flaws—be globally recognized experts on the Light and philosophy? The image of his father as a wagging puppy emerging from the water haunted him and would likely appear in his nightmares for the rest of his life.
“Anyway, your father is right. When the Light grows within you, it's easy to think you hold the reins—to believe the world bends to your will. But sometimes, it’s not your will that drives you. It's... someone else's. Someone you don't yet know—"
"Maria, are you sure we should talk about her now?"
Maria hesitates, her gaze flickering to Michael before nodding at Edgar. "You're right," she concedes, her voice softening. "It’s too soon."
Michael’s jaw tightened, the unspoken exchange between his parents setting his nerves ablaze. "Too soon for what? Why is everything with you two always wrapped in riddles? I’m done with the secrets. Just tell me the truth, for once!"
“It’s not important for now.”
“We’ll continue tomorrow. We’re all tired,” Maria said after their laughter subsided.
“And anyway, Michael, we are free,” Edgar added, nodding in agreement. “It’s true we are the world, and the world shapes what we think and feel. But we can act to broaden our world’s horizon—by learning new things, traveling, discovering, and creating beauty. We can act. By living in the here and now, taking hold of the world and, piece by piece, our lives. It’s in my books—you’ve read them, haven’t you? And that’s also the core principle of illumination, isn’t it? Taking hold of the moment, focusing on the here and now, becoming the person in front of you. Understanding yourself in them.”
Michael nodded. It was true. Those were the principles of illumination. Jonata had taught him the practice, yet it had felt natural to him from the start. Because, in truth, he had been in school all along, since he was a child, thanks to his special parents. Strange—especially his father—but special.
Michael didn’t know how long he’d been silent, lost in thought, but he didn’t want the evening to end there. He still had so many questions. Maria, however, insisted.
“We wouldn’t have time to cover everything anyway. And besides, it’s only one more night to wait.”
“But I have school tomorrow!”
“It doesn’t matter. You can stay home.”
“And you? Don’t you have work?”
“We can stay home too.”
“I just need to go to the library for some research. It can wait,” his father added.
“And the pharmacy can do without me for a day. Someone will cover for me,” Maria said.
The pharmacy... Now that Michael knew the truth, that job seemed like the biggest lie of all. But they had to make a living somehow—maybe they needed the money from that job. Or perhaps it was just an easy way to keep a low profile, to appear “normal,” like aliens biding their time to take over the Earth… And there it was again—the theme of the evening: world domination...
Michael leaned his elbows on his knees and buried his head in his hands, massaging his temples thoughtfully. He felt very tired. He tried to think, but his mind felt empty. Too empty. Something was wrong. He jolted upright.
“Mom, I feel tired. I can’t think anymore! Did you… ”
“Illuminate you? Of course not. I’d never do such a thing.”
Michael raised his eyes, studying his mother’s face carefully, though avoiding her gaze—it embarrassed him when their eyes met. But it was true; she wasn’t a stranger. She was the same mother who had packed his school lunch every morning or taken him on riverside picnics on countless Sunday afternoons.
Both parents leaned forward, placing their hands on his. Michael knew, as a good teenager, he should have been disgusted by such syrupy displays of affection. Don’t try to calm me down, he thought, resisting the gesture. Yet, there was something undeniable about the warmth of their touch—a quiet reassurance that they weren’t just his parents, but people who understood him, even in ways he didn’t yet understand himself. His anger softened, though the unanswered questions still gnawed at the edges of his mind.
“Don’t forget—I’m your mom. Not just any teacher.”
“And I’m your dad—not just any philosophy professor. A very good one.”
Maria sighed, exasperated, and Michael glanced at them as though they were aliens. For some reason, they stood up from their chairs at the same time, perfectly in sync.
And they don’t need the Light—they’re just naturally in sync, Michael thought.
They bid him goodnight and went to their room.
He followed a few seconds later, trudging up the stairs.
He didn’t bother with the bathroom or brushing his teeth. He undressed and slipped under the covers. As the bed warmed and he felt relaxed, he placed his hands behind his head, gazing at the ceiling as his eyes slowly closed.
Memories from his childhood drifted back—the picnic by the river when they had all sung Row, row, row your boat together, and he’d felt so happy and fulfilled. The canoe, the river, the packed lunch. A family, without the Light or anything else.
Maybe that’s what he wanted. Or maybe not. Maybe what he wanted most was the opposite—a family where the Light was part of life every day, with nothing to hide.
The images of the river began to blur, the sounds muffled. Outside the window, in the garden, the hoot of an owl blended with his memories of that trip—the splashing of the paddles, a fish leaping to break the surface as he shouted, “I saw it!” and the ducks swimming calmly in groups, diving in turn in search of who knows what. The shimmering sunlight on the water, the rustling leaves, the lofty, gentle clouds, and the scent of flowers and herbs by the bank, coming and going. All these memories accompanied him into sleep. He felt calm, at last, because he knew that all of that life, his past, wouldn’t be wasted tomorrow. Nothing is lost, he thought. No, life will continue to flow as it always has—always the same, always different, he mused, drifting along in the current, as the sun slowly set on the horizon. Everything was peaceful, increasingly still, and darkness finally enveloped him in the warm sheets of his serenity.
Row, row, row your boat
gently down the stream
merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily
life is but a... dream.