Obsidian Stone

One month to live.
It sounds like a bad joke.

He has more money than he could ever spend, but it means nothing. He’s still going to die – at twenty-two.

Richard lies on his couch, hollowed out by depression. He stares at the ceiling, too heavy to move. A knock comes at the door before an older gentleman steps inside.

“Mr. Richard,” the man says cautiously, “I believe I speak for all your staff when I say we’re quite worried about you. Perhaps a walk? Some sunlight? It’s a lovely day out.”

Richard exhales, slow and tired. “I appreciate your concern, Ronaldo. Maybe I’ll go for a walk,” he murmurs, voice flat.

Ronaldo hesitates, then nods and leaves.

Richard looks toward the window. The day really is beautiful. Maybe a walk would help. He rises, puts on a coat, and drifts toward the park.

As he walks, something in him begins to loosen. Not much – but enough. The air smells of lilac and rain-soaked earth. Spring. The cruelest season to die in, he thinks, when everything else insists on being alive.

Lost in thought, he doesn’t see the woman until she crashes into him, sending them both tumbling. She springs up, mortified, and offers her hand.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I got lost in my music. Are you okay?” she asks, eyes wide with concern.

Her hand is warm – a shock against the cold that has lived in him for weeks. He lets her pull him up. Their eyes meet. Hers are a luminous green, bright and unsettling. For a moment, the weight in his chest lightens.

“I’m fine,” Richard mutters, brushing grass from his trousers.

“Lana.” She smiles, small and apologetic. “And you are?”

“Dying,” he blurts before he can stop himself. The word drops between them like a confession. He braces for pity or awkwardness.

But Lana’s smile doesn’t fade. It deepens. “Aren’t we all?” she says softly. “The real question is – what will you do with the time you have left, Richard?”

He blinks. “How do you know my name?”

Her smile turns mysterious. She reaches into her pocket and draws out a smooth, black stone, placing it in his palm. It’s unnaturally warm.

“I’ve known this day would come,” she says, meeting his gaze.

“What does that mean? Don’t tell me you’re psychic,” he says, trying to laugh.

But Lana doesn’t. She holds his hand. “The man with one month to live,” she says quietly. “Your death isn’t an ending. It’s a passage. Something greater awaits you. I’m here to help you find it.”

Richard stares. “Is this a joke?”

Lana shakes her head. “No joke. All real.”

He sighs and rubs his forehead. “Look, Lana. You seem kind, but I don’t need someone telling me how to spend what’s left of my life. So, thanks, but no thanks.” He tries to hand back the stone.

She only smiles. “Keep it. It’ll find me when you’re ready.”

Then she puts her earbuds in and jogs away, leaving him standing there, confused and vaguely breathless.

He lingers for a while before heading home. On the couch, he pulls the stone from his pocket. It’s cold now. Dead.

“I knew it. Just a hoax,” he mutters, setting it on the coffee table. Still, he can’t shake the memory of her eyes, her voice, her certainty.

…

The next morning, he wakes unrested. The question won’t leave him: How did she know?

He pockets the stone and returns to the park. It stays cold as he walks until he nears the fountain. Then, suddenly, it warms again.

He stops. The air around him stills.

Richard steps closer, the stone pulsing with heat in his palm. The fountain’s shimmer deepens; the city’s noise falls away. Light fractures the world around him.

In the water, he sees something impossible: children running through a golden meadow, laughter carried on the wind. He can almost hear it.

He trusts the pull. And steps not into the water, but through it.

The world folds, then unfolds again. He stands in a vast, sunlit field under a violet sky. The air is sweet, alive. The ache that once consumed him is gone.

Lana stands before him, smiling. “Welcome,” she says. “I told you it would guide you.”

“What is this place?” he breathes.

“A world where time moves like a gentle current,” she says. “Here, you don’t spend what’s left of your life. You simply live.”

He looks down at the stone. It’s no longer black, but clear, glowing softly from within. Not a token, but a key.

Richard pockets it and gazes at the horizon. For the first time in years, he smiles, free and unafraid.

He is no longer a dying man. He is an explorer.

“And this is your world?” he asks.

“Yes,” Lana says, her grin bright and mischievous. “A world of fairies, elves, and others you’ve only dreamed of. You’d be surprised how many of us are here.”

“Then show me.”

And together, they begin.