There is something so intense about the sun on a crisp Autumn afternoon. It pays extra attention to the specks of dust that drift through the air, making them sparkle and glisten on their aimless journey. The metal hilt of my sword is warm to the touch, despite the sharp breeze that rustles the dry leaves it rests upon.

In the summer, the sun beats down relentlessly and scorches everything beneath its mighty gaze, but in the Autumn, as the birds and insects have traded their songs for silence and the trees have succumbed to slumber, it seems to have a greater concern for those who bask in its glow.

And as my eyes drift shut and my body stalls, all of its concern seems to rest on me. It heats my eyelids with bliding blues and golds that dance against the thin veil of flesh.

I haven't felt this happy in many years. In this moment, I remember Mother's hugs.

My heart swells with pride.

Perhaps the sun has waited for all of time to warm my face as I draw my last breath.

Perhaps it has waited just for me.

No, death is not failure, but victory.

Because the sun is so aware of me-so intense-that I cannot imagine how I have lost...