Elias

You remember the smell of home—wax, herbs, bread. You remember your sister by the window, your father by the fireplace. Now your flesh is a prison whose walls reveal your bones. Pain is your only heir.

You came to him, Elias, in your last hope. In the bare cell, a beam of light fell on his translucent hands. "Give her to me," he asked, hunger in his voice. His fingers touched the inflamed flesh—and the heat drained away, like water into sand. You sighed. He shuddered in silent bliss. "The taste of despair," he whispered.

You began the ritual. You arrived at the height of your torment. "Describe it," he demanded, and you whispered dark poems of decay. He touched you, transforming agony into ecstasy. His face glowed. Yours—hidden beneath his helmet—was distorted by envy of his purity. He was fragile glass. You—eternal decay.

“Isn’t your path about compassion?” you once asked. "I give pain meaning," he replied. "I elevate it to a cult." There was nothing but obsession in his words.

You became both each other's salvation and threat. This dependence became your distorted semblance of a family.

Now, in the silence, he looks at you with a decision. "The curse cannot be broken. But it can be divided. In two." He holds out his palms. This is an offer - to accept half of your hell forever.

You look at his clean hands. You remember your sister's touch. This will be a touch too. A final one.

To take his hands would be to condemn him to your own torment. To turn away would be to remain forever alone.

Is this the essence of intimacy?

TGK https://t.me/lgdwl48cN8E1ZmQy