“Take Care” was the last thing he heard.

Lying on the hospital bed, his head gently cupped by his friends, he looked at them with blurry eyes, he an 25 years old, in his prime, yet already weak and old.

Satisfied , yet dissatisfied with his own life.

He lay there, dying, dying to the virus.

He lay taking his last breath, his last vision of his friends around him.

And so, he smiled.

His hands were on the bedside, holding the last keepsake his parts left him before they had left him when he was young.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

A knife, a curved combat knife, old, yet durable and sturdy still. (https://i.pinimg.com/originals/6a/ac/a5/6aaca53d6ecc5a8e6169e6e77a1e0d5c.jpg)

No longer sharp, yet reassuring still.

“See you!”

His last world when all went dark.

Then a colorful tunnel, he seeming to glow a mix of color, idyllically similar to the tunnel at least, then a raging river, a river of stars, storms, thunder, and all in bitween, wheels that turned in the river, each unique with their own patterns size shape materials, some stone, some wood, some, bone, one even seemed to made of hair.

Others were like living moving history, constantly changing yet moving, if it makes sense.

Through, many wheels came and many went, by he swam(?) past them.

All of them until he came across a giant wheel, one many, many times others.

No not bigger, it was multiple wheels, one pouring into another, a large one in the middle, with many on the side, like gears, pushing one another, one pouring into another.

Like a vacuum it sucked him towards it.

That was the last thing he really saw for a long time.