There was no ending.
Only continuation.
The stories were told around fire, but no one claimed them.
No hero's name.
No sacred text.
Just breath moving through bodies,
truth moving through lives,
and a world where presence was enough.
Aarav was gone.
But not lost.
He existed now in:
The stillness between a child's inhale and exhale.
The quiet pause before someone chooses not to strike.
The soft glance between two people who understand without needing words.
The structures built to align, not to impress.
The world no longer searched for gods.
Not because it rejected them.
But because it had remembered itself.
The flame?
It never died.
Because it was never fire.
It was never worship.
It was never power.
It was simply…
the decision to be awake.
And so it burned on—
in silence,
in breath,
in lives well lived.
Without smoke.
Without name.
Without end.
The End.