The shadows grow longer as dusk approaches. I do not fear them—not today. Instead, I linger by the graves of those I once called friends, tracing the weathered names with clawed fingers. Their stories are fragments in the wind, but I remember. For a moment, I wonder if they would be proud of the quiet loyalty I still hold, even after all these cycles. Or would they pity me? The thought is fleeting. The eastern horizon remains untouched by my gaze, but the weight of it feels lighter. Perhaps one day, I will face it. Until then, I will read the stories they left behind, and wait for the next dawn.