There is this rather unpopular saying—that death often evaluates life.
It's not something we quote at dinner parties or post on social media. But in its silent truth lies a haunting sense of wisdom.
We often live as if time is endless, as if the things we do and the people we love will always be there. Yet it is only when death whispers near, whether through loss or through the ticking clock we sometimes dare to notice, that we begin to truly weigh the moments that mattered and who we were.
Death doesn't just end life—it reviews it. Not with judgment, but with clarity. It holds up our choices, our regrets, our joys, and asks: was it enough? Were we kind? Were we brave? Did we love? What were we worth? Would we be missed?
So maybe the challenge isn't to avoid thinking of death, but to let its silence remind us how to live fully, now—while we still can.
Or perhaps… to accept it when it comes.
There was a man who lay on his deathbed in a large hospital room. He was old now, his once-strong frame reduced to stillness. His hairs were white as fresh snow, his skin weathered by the passage of time. His eyes, now a dim shade of purple, flickered faintly—those same eyes that once held a brilliance so fierce, they rivaled the stars that now hung in the night sky.
He was not alone. Loved ones surrounded him—friends, family, old comrades—all watching in quiet agony, tears trailing down their cheeks as the seconds slipped away. They held his hands, whispered his name, clung to him as though their love might anchor his soul in place.
In the fading corners of his mind, his voice echoed gently:
'So, I guess this is it for us... the end of our adventure.'
But then, from the silence, came another voice—a voice only he could hear. Familiar. Ageless.
'You know, with your wealth, you could easily wish to extend your life. As long as you wish, really. There are still so many other things you could do.'
It was tempting. So tempting.
The old man chuckled, a raspy, fragile sound that still carried warmth.
"Stop that," he murmured aloud, though most in the room thought it was just the breath of a fading mind. 'How many times have I told you… this is what I want, Ni'Raj?'
There was a pause. A weight in the silence that only he could feel.
'I still don't understand,' Ni'Raj replied, reluctant, almost pained. 'After everything you've built—after everything we've survived—you choose to die? Why?'
The old man's eyelids fluttered, the hint of a smile forming at the corners of his lips.
"Because," he whispered, "I've lived a life full of days, not just years. I've danced in rainstorms, held hands under constellations, made strangers into friends and friends into family, I made it to the pinnacle of strength and wealth, lived like a god amongst men. I've known love that made time feel like it stood still… and loss that taught me how to let go."
He paused, breathing shallow.
'I don't want to keep living just because I can. That's not living—that's clinging. My story feels complete. My grandchildren know my voice, my children carry my spirit. I've done what I came to do. And if I stayed longer… I'd only be watching the world move on without me.'
His eyes glimmered with tears. "It's their time now. Not mine."
The silence after was soft—almost reverent. Even Ni'Raj, timeless as he was, said nothing.
Because some endings are not losses… they are choices.
One of the people holding his hand tightened his grip, his voice breaking through the stillness like a soft plea.
"Please, Father… don't go."
The old man slowly turned his head, eyes locking onto the speaker—a man in his fifties in a suit with neatly combed blond hair and gentle purple eyes, so much like his own once were. Behind him stood a graceful woman, his wife, her eyes already brimming with tears. Flanking them were two young girls—twins—, young women in their twenties, clutching each other's hands, fear and sorrow written across their youthful faces.
The old man gazed at his son, and for a moment, the veil of time seemed to lift.
He didn't see a grown man. He saw a little boy with dirt on his cheeks and laughter in his lungs, the kind of smile that could brighten even the darkest of rooms. He saw scraped knees and bedtime stories, little arms wrapped around his neck. He saw himself kneeling to tie tiny shoes and waving at the school gates as that little figure disappeared with a wave.
He saw the first heartbreak, the first triumph, the first time his son introduced the girl who would become his wife. He saw the wedding. The tears. The joy. The day Tero became a father, trembling as he held his daughters for the first time.
A lifetime played out in the blink of an eye.
The old man smiled.
"You are a man now, Tero," he said, his voice weak but steady, filled with pride. "You'd best act like it."
Tero let out a choked breath, tears falling freely, yet he nodded—just like he did when he was that little boy, trying to be brave for his father.
The old man gave his hand one last reassuring squeeze.
Tero's voice trembled, thick with emotion. He gripped his father's hand tighter, desperation bleeding into every word.
"But… there's still so much you haven't taught me. So much I'm still learning. Please, stay with us. I know you can, Father. You've done the impossible before. You can do anything you want—so please… stay."
The old man's eyes softened, his chest rising with a slow, gentle breath. A faint chuckle escaped his lips—barely more than a whisper, yet it carried the warmth of a thousand memories.
"You don't need to worry so much. I'm sure you'll do just fine without an old man like me."
He gave his son a knowing look, eyes gleaming for one final moment with that familiar twinkle of mischief and depth.
"Besides… what is life without adventures and discovery? I've had mine. Now it's your turn. You'll make the right decisions, I believe that. And the wrong ones… well, they'll just help you make better ones later on."
Tero sobbed quietly, leaning forward, resting his forehead against his father's hand, unable to speak.
The old man's eyes shifted slowly, sweeping over the faces of his other children gathered close. His gaze found each one in turn, pausing as if memorizing them one last time.
"Ralen," he rasped gently, "Kael… Venn."
The three younger sons leaned in, tears brimming in their eyes.
"Look after your big brother," the old man continued. "He means well, but you know how he is—works too hard, carries too much… and tends to take things overboard."
The three men exchanged glances, their grief heavy, but they nodded with trembling lips.
"Yes, Father," Ralen whispered.
"We will," Kael added, voice cracking.
"Promise," Venn finished, wiping his eyes.
The old man smiled at them, pride softening the pain on his face.
Then his gaze moved to the last of them—his daughter.
She stood a little apart, eyes glistening, chin held high even as her hands trembled. He looked at her expectantly, waiting for the fire he knew so well.
She stepped closer, placing her hand over his.
"I'll walk with him," she said firmly.
The old man's lips curled upward, the smile faint but full of affection.
"That's my Teru," he murmured.
But then her brows furrowed, her voice dipping lower. "But… what if the world needs you again?" she asked, almost a whisper. "What if they need you?"
The old man was quiet for a long moment. The heart monitor beside him ticked steadily, like the fading drumbeat of a long journey.
He turned his eyes toward her—still warm, still full of love, then gave a soft chuckle.
"Huh… I never thought of that."
He smiled—tired, but still teasing—and said, "I'm sure new heroes will rise to protect this world."
But Teru wasn't satisfied. She took another step closer, her voice cracking as she said, "But no one comes even close to you. What if the world really needs you… when you're gone?"
The old man looked at her for a long moment, his eyes dim but still burning with that stubborn spark.
"You raise a point," he said slowly. Then, with a smirk creeping onto his face—half proud, half amused—he added, "But I wish to rest."
He turned his head slightly, gazing somewhere distant—somewhere only he could see.
"And perhaps, if the threat does come…" he smirked wider, arrogantly now, the old fire returning for one last moment, "...I'll come running from the grave to crush it. As you said—I can do anything."
He let out a raspy laugh, short but full of mischief.
"So let this old man rest for a while… Don't I deserve that, for all I've done?"
In the quiet of his mind, Ni'Raj's voice echoed softly:
'...Is that a wish?'
The old man chuckled faintly, his eyelids beginning to droop.
'Who knows… perhaps it is perhaps it isn't' he whispered back.
'I see, and perhaps I shall grant it or perhaps I won't.' Ni'Raj's voice echoed again.
Teru wiped her eyes. She knew. They all did. That he wasn't being literal. That these were just comforting words to ease the parting. But she chose to believe them—because belief was the last gift a daughter could give.
So, her father rested.
He turned his gaze now to the few remaining friends around his bed—old warriors, adventurers, brothers in arms.
With a crooked grin, he said, "I'll be waiting for you lot on the other side. Do try not to keep me waiting."
One of them, a white-bearded man with trembling hands, let out a broken laugh through his tears.
"Even in death, you are still that annoying bastard, I see," he said, wiping his eyes. "You never change."
The old man chuckled weakly, "If I did you would have assumed I went senile."
His friend chuckled back, "Fair point."
The room, despite the grief, rippled with soft laughter.
The old man's friends smiled, "Rest now, my friend."
And then, gently, like a leaf on the wind, the old man exhaled.
And did not draw breath again.