The climbing
The wind cut harder this high up.
I sat on a narrow ledge, back pressed to the cold stone of the tower, fingers aching as I unscrewed the cap on my water bottle. My hands were raw — torn open at the palms, blood dried into the lines like old ink.
Six hours of climbing.
I took a sip, then a breath, then another. Tried not to look down.
But I did.
The city stretched far and wide beneath me — Gazelle, glowing softly under the deep blue of night. It looked almost gentle from up here. Streets curled like veins through a body I no longer belonged to. Car headlights moved in silence, too distant for sound. Neon signs flickered and pulsed over clubs and cafés that never really closed. The ocean glimmered faintly to the west, a strip of silver pressed between city lights and black sky.
And yet, it all felt unreal.
From this height, people were just specks. Tiny, weightless things going about their lives — buying food, holding hands, breathing without effort. The kind of life I used to think was automatic.
I tilted my head upward.
Above me, the tower stretched on — vanishing into the night like it was trying to pierce heaven. It didn't look man-made anymore. It looked like it had always been here. Like it wasn't built but grown from the bones of the earth, cursed to stand forever.
The wind howled around the edges. Cold. Wild. Restless.
Far in the distance, lightning blinked behind mountain peaks — silent and soft like a warning meant only for me.
And still… the city slept.
No one knew I was up here.
No one cared.
And that, somehow, made it easier.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and looked up. Still more to go. The top was hidden in the dark sky, far out of reach. Like always.
"God," I muttered, "I should've reached the end by now."
My voice vanished into the wind.
I closed my eyes. Felt the sting in my fingers, the burn in my arms. Every muscle ached. My knees were bruised. My shirt was soaked with sweat and cold air.
I laughed, bitter and small.
"My hands hurt like hell," I said to no one. "But who gives a shit, right?"
I looked down again at the glowing world below me. "Whether I jump from the top or just slip now… makes no difference. Either way, I'm done."
I should've died five months ago.
Five months ago: post civil farewell
The key turned stiff in the lock.
I stepped inside slowly, half-expecting the air to move — to breathe her in again. But the apartment was still. Heavy. Quiet in a way that made my chest hurt. That jasmine scent she always burned still clung to the curtains, faint but stubborn. Like it didn't know she was gone.
I shut the door behind me. It didn't feel like coming home.
Her shawl was still draped over the armchair. Her teacup sat on the table, half-shadowed by dust. Every detail felt untouched — like she might walk in any moment and scold me gently for forgetting to take off my shoes.
I walked in slow, careful, like I didn't belong anymore.
And then I broke.
I dropped to the floor beside her chair, knees giving out. The tears came quietly at first… then they didn't stop.
I pressed my forehead to the cold tile, shaking.
Then I slammed it down.
Once.
Twice.
It didn't help. It just made the pain louder.
I pushed myself up, swaying, chest heaving, and stumbled into the kitchen.
I opened the drawer like I was sleepwalking.
Found them.
Her sewing scissors.
I picked them up with shaking hands. Cold metal. Clean blade.
I brought it to my wrist.
One push.
One clean slice, and it would all finally—
My eyes caught something on the shelf.
A frame.
I reached for it. Fingers trembling.
It was my parents. Smiling. Alive. Standing in the middle of a city street. Frozen in a time that no longer existed.
But behind them…
There it was.
The Tower.
Rising in the distance. Massive. Silent. Watching.
The one they all call The Ancient Tower.
But I know better.
That's not its name.
It's the Tower of God.
I stared at it, breathing hard. The scissors still in my hand, the photo in the other.
And in that moment, I stopped shaking.
The grief didn't go away — but it turned solid. Sharp.
It was over. All of it.
There was no future for me here. No family.
No god left to answer.
Now I knew where it had to end.
Not here—in this silent room full of shadows.
Not hidden away like a forgotten secret.
I needed a place that would bear witness.
A place that would scream my absence to the world.
Somewhere so high, even the sky couldn't ignore me.
I let the scissors fall to the floor.
Held the photo like a last thread.
And I knew—
It would end at the Tower.
Present day
The memory faded as the cold wind bit into my skin.
The past was a weight, but the tower ahead was heavier.
I tightened my grip on the rough stone, pushing off from the ledge.
The city lights below blurred, swallowed by darkness and distance.
Only the climb mattered now.
Each handhold a step closer to the end I'd chosen.
And the silence waiting for me at the top.
As I pushed myself upward, my eyes caught something ahead — a faint glow bleeding through the dark.
A light.
Not the cold, distant city lights below. Not the moon or stars.
This was different.
A soft, almost otherworldly shimmer flickering at the very top of the tower.
It pulsed gently, like a heartbeat.
I blinked. Was it real?
Or just my mind playing tricks after hours of climbing in silence?
But the light stayed.
Waiting.
And for the first time since I began, something inside me stirred.
Curiosity.
Or maybe something worse.
Hope.
The warm glow poured out like liquid fire, flooding the darkness I'd been swallowed by for hours.
After six long hours clinging to cold stone and shadows, the sudden brightness hit me like a blow.
I blinked rapidly, squinting as the light stabbed into my eyes, burning away the night.
For a moment, I couldn't tell where the door ended and the tower began.
The rough edges blurred into golden haze.
My hand reached out instinctively, but the shape of the entrance remained hidden beneath the glare.
I swallowed hard, heart pounding harder—caught between fear and something I couldn't name.
The light wasn't just illumination.
It was a challenge.
An impossible invitation.
I stepped through the threshold, and the blinding glare softened—like sunlight filtered through stained glass.
The warmth wrapped around me, gentle and unreal.
I blinked, struggling to believe what I saw.
The hall stretched out before me—vast, ancient, and impossibly beautiful.
Massive pillars soared upward like the bones of some colossal beast, carved from marble streaked with veins of shimmering gold.
The ceiling was impossibly high—so far above that it seemed to disappear into shadows painted with swirling constellations pulsing quietly, like the heartbeat of the place itself.
Rich tapestries, faded but vibrant, hung along the walls—telling stories older than any history I knew.
Dust floated in the air, catching the golden light like a million tiny stars dancing just for me.
At the far end, a stone altar stood on a raised dais, etched with strange symbols that felt both foreign and hauntingly familiar—like a secret buried deep in my blood.
I could hardly breathe.
This place wasn't just real—it was impossible.
A myth come to life.
A dream breaking through the edges of the world.
I reached out, half-expecting the hall to vanish like a trick of the light.
But it didn't.
It was all there.
Waiting.
The silence was broken by a soft sound—like the flutter of wings just beyond sight.
Before I could turn, a presence was behind me.
A man stepped close, calm and steady.
Tall, with pale skin that seemed to catch the golden light softly, but warm to the touch.
His dark eyes met mine—deep and unreadable, like they held secrets older than time itself.
His face was calm, almost serene, but there was something in the way his lips pressed into a faint, knowing smile that made my skin prick with unease.
He wore simple white robes that fell neatly, nothing grand, nothing otherworldly—at least, not at first glance.
"I am honored you have come, Ousse," he said quietly, voice steady and respectful.
"We have been awaiting your arrival."
He paused, tilting his head slightly, studying me as if weighing a great decision.
Then his eyes softened, and he added gently,
"May I have the honor of showing you the way, Chosen prophet?"
A lot of questions flooded my mind. A lot of things I wanted to say.
But all that came out was,
"Wait—the Chosen what?"