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Death, when it arrives, does not announce itself. It’s not like the loud, sudden end we often imagine, but a quiet, almost imperceptible transition. One moment, you are within the warmth of life—your heart pulsing, thoughts racing, senses alive—and the next, you are drifting.

At first, there's confusion. It feels like waking from a dream, the kind where everything feels wrong but you can’t put your finger on it. The world blurs around you, and you try to grasp it, but your hands pass through air, soft as silk, as though your body is no longer a thing that exists to touch or be touched. The sounds of the world—voices, wind, music—fade away, becoming whispers, echoes in an endless cavern. You reach for them, but they slip through your fingers like water.

The heaviness of your body lightens, no longer tethered to the weight of flesh or bone. You might feel a strange sensation, like floating—floating through time, through space, or through some unknown threshold, but with no clear destination. A part of you wants to ask, Where am I going? but even that question feels unnecessary. There’s no fear now, only the soft pull, like a lullaby.

In the absence of sound, there’s only a stillness so deep it hums. It’s not silence, exactly, but something more profound—a kind of peace that fills the air. It’s like being held, not by a person or a place, but by the very idea of rest.

The memory of your life begins to fade, a fading echo in the distance. Thoughts and emotions grow distant, too. There are no regrets, no last-minute pleadings, no frantic desires. Only this, this vast sense of release. You surrender to it, willingly.

It’s not painful. In fact, it’s the opposite of pain. It is gentle, soft, as though you are sinking into the warm embrace of sleep, but deeper—so much deeper—that you no longer even remember what it felt like to be awake.

And then, as everything blurs, you realize with a quiet certainty: there is no "you" anymore. Only the vastness, the stillness, and a calm that stretches into forever.

Death isn’t an end. It’s a return, to a place where you never quite left.