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There was a certain presence in the snow-swept ruins.
A shadow. An absence. A silent observer. A pair of eyes in the shadows.
A Watcher.
And another. A psychopomp, a spirit, a Saint.
They were similar, the Watcher knew, but not alike. The Saint, powerful as it may be, was still of this world. Was bound to it.
The Watcher was not bound to much of anything anymore.
And yet here they were, a fallen god's body serving as a shrine to their chance meeting. The snow shrouded them in an eerie quiet as they looked one another in the eye.
It was the Saint who spoke first. Their voice was barely a whisper, and yet the Watcher almost flinched at the shattering silence.
"Hello."
The Watcher dipped their head, briefly unwilling to speak - but the quiet had already been broken, hadn't it?
"Greetings."
"You are...?" The Saint tilted its head.
The Watcher hesitated. "...I am merely a traveler, a passer-through. I do not seek to interfere in your business, nor to disrupt this world's ways. I am only here to watch."
"Very well." Though soft, the Saint's voice had a certain quality about it, one that carried its words through the snow and urged the rest of the world to pause and listen as they spoke.
"...This place is familiar to me," the Watcher found themself saying. "Not now. But in another time. I have known the shape of these passages before."
The Saint acknowledged their words with a quiet hum. "These lands housed many, once. Few remain."
The Watcher was silent for a moment. "...It is not the worst way this could have gone."
"Hm?"
"I have seen many a world live and die." The Watcher leaned back, looking out into the snow. "It is merely logical. Existence is such a precarious thing. There are more failure conditions than successes, and even then entropy dictates every cycle that can end will eventually. This is a peaceful end, compared to some."
"Such as...?"
"Many fall to decay. Rip themselves apart, swallow themselves whole. Like a tumor. This world, for what it is worth, is not sick. It will not die screaming in agony. It dies with a soft exhale, with falling snow. It dies like falling asleep." The Watcher's gaze turned back to the Saint. "There is no happy end, but at least it is not a painful one."
"That is true." The Saint dipped their head. "It is tragic, still, to see something so beautiful end at all."
"It is," the Watcher acknowledged. "But it is the way of things. Everything moves on eventually. It is never pleasant, but I think perhaps it is for the best. Perhaps it is better to move on than to cling to a memory until it corrupts you from the inside out."
The Saint nodded. "Nothing lasts forever, and to cling onto it will only bring suffering. One must come to terms with it if one ever wishes to move on."
"Precisely. And in order to find something better, one must move on." The Watcher was silent for a moment, before sighing. "It is bittersweet, still."
"That it is."
The blizzard had intensified as the two spoke, to the point that the Saint felt the cold even despite its thick fur and the warm lantern in its paws. It stretched, glancing out into the storm. "...I believe the time has come when we must part ways."
The Watcher dipped their head. "Farewell, then. Perhaps we will meet again."
"Perhaps." The Saint nodded.
With a final glance in the Saint's direction, the Watcher vanished, and the little psychopomp was left alone once again.