Light did not fade when Elian stepped forward.
Instead, it spread—quietly, endlessly—until the darkness of the Endroad softened into a vast horizon of pale gold. The road beneath his feet was no longer stone or sand, but something closer to memory: firm when he trusted it, uncertain when he doubted.
Ahead, the other Elian walked in silence.
He looked back once, eyes clear, then continued without explanation.
Mara and Teren appeared beside him, as if the road had decided they belonged there. Neither seemed surprised by the place, only thoughtful.
"Is this still the Endroad?" Mara asked.
"Yes," Teren said. "But now it listens more than it speaks."
The road narrowed again, not splitting this time, but sharpening—like a blade honed for a single purpose. At its end stood a gate made of nothing but air, its outline visible only because the world bent slightly around it.
Beyond the gate were countless paths, overlapping and intersecting, stretching into infinity.
Elian stopped.
"This is where it ends," he said.
Teren nodded. "For many, yes. All roads lead here eventually. The final choice."
Mara frowned. "What choice? There's only one gate."
"The choice is not where you go," Teren said gently. "It's whether you pass through."
Elian's pulse quickened. "What happens if I do?"
"You stop walking," Teren replied. "You become part of the road. A guide. A memory. A truth for others to follow."
Elian stared at the endless paths beyond the gate. Eternity, laid bare—not as a reward, but as a responsibility.
"And if I don't?" he asked.
"Then you return," Teren said. "To a single life. Finite. Fragile. Unfinished."
Mara's breath caught. "You mean… he'd forget all this?"
"Not forget," Teren said. "But he would no longer see the thousand roads. He would live only one."
The other Elian turned back, watching him closely now.
This is what you feared, that version said without speaking. Not death. But choosing one life and letting all others go.
Elian's hands clenched. All along the journey, he had learned to release regret, burden, illusion. But this—this was different. This was letting go of possibility itself.
"I could help others," Elian said softly. "I could keep them from losing themselves like I almost did."
"Yes," Teren said. "And you would never belong to any one moment again."
Mara stepped closer, eyes shining. "Or you could live. Laugh. Fail. Love someone who won't last forever."
Her voice broke on the last word.
The road trembled.
Images rose around Elian—futures branching endlessly. In some, he stood alone, watching travelers pass, ageless and calm. In others, he aged, stumbled, laughed, held hands, buried loved ones, wrote words in the journal until the pages ran out.
One eternity was endless.
The other was full.
Elian looked at the journal in his hands. Its final pages were still blank.
"I thought eternity was the goal," he said quietly.
"It's the temptation," Teren replied.
The other Elian smiled—not sadly, but proudly. Whatever you choose, he said, choose it fully.
Elian stepped toward the gate… then stopped.
He turned back.
"I don't want to be a road," he said. "I want to walk one."
The gate shimmered violently, then dissolved like mist in sunlight. The endless paths beyond it folded inward, collapsing into a single, narrow road stretching away under a living sky.
The other Elian nodded once—and faded.
Teren's shoulders sagged, as if a great weight had finally been set down. "Then my task is done."
Mara grabbed Elian and pulled him into a fierce embrace. "Idiot," she said, laughing through tears. "Brave, wonderful idiot."
The road warmed beneath their feet.
Ahead lay a simple path—no glow, no whisper, no promise of forever. Just a road leading toward a small, distant town, smoke rising from chimneys.
A life.
Elian opened the journal and wrote the final line:
Eternity is not living forever.
It is choosing to live, even when forever is offered.
He closed the book.
Hand in hand, they walked on—
not toward eternity,
but into meaning.