A half-closed curtain dims the light. The end is close at hand.

Lurking just behind the corner, he waits. The shapeshifter. Only once did I witness him standing just outside her window, but the opportunity to warn her escaped me. Memory serves me well: the staircase was impossible to navigate, if you managed to find the entrance. All the houses in the row seemed the same. The sky that day was different; clouds seemed to have lost their way, one drifting north, the other one south, the rest of them descending and ascending rhythmically. Silhouettes of passersby unbothered by all, shrouded in the morning mist, drifted past me. At times, I would see familiar faces at her door, offering aid or giving condolences to the family. Their faces saddened upon hearing the news, they spoke to the husband at the door, refusing to enter. No one stayed longer than five minutes. Mourning lasted only minutes before the city’s cadence swallowed it whole, returning everything to what it was before.

It was different inside.

In the confines of a four-walled box, a life passed, shrouded from the outside world. A delicate, mother’s life. Once minutes now turned into hours, words turned to stone, and all had turned their back onto the hand that once used to feed. Everyday life was but a distant memory. Seasons changed one after another countless times. Every equinox and solstice brought with itself a remnant of a distant time; a memory of days when she would stay up all night and watch the dawn of a new season approach. She knew the entirety of the Messier catalogue by heart, never needing a paper guide or an app to tell her where the stars were at night. No amount of disorientation could throw her off; place her wherever on the face of the Earth, and she could recognize all objects in the night sky. By observing the leaves, the grass, the rivers and trees, she could tell you the exact month, season, and day.

Her name was Juno. Nature spoke to her. But only for so long.

Life after the incident flowed devoid of all hope; only a family member’s occasional tap on the back and a meal brought to her bed reminded her she was still alive. It stirred the room’s stale air.

I remember: spring was just around the corner that day. Juno lived an hour’s drive away from us, so my sister and I set out before the break of dawn to arrive just before her perscripted wake up time. Her schedule was strict: three immunotherapy pills at seven, breakfast at eight, and a nurse’s routine check-up at eleven. And the rest of the day?
Bedsheets. Silence. No one bothered to enter the room.

But only as seen by the outside viewer.

Her inside view is different. The trail is overgrown with thorns and tall grass. A star is scorching the earth; rocks are melting, the ground is collapsing into itself. Nearing the summit, she rests on a root, almost breathless from the year-long climb to the top. In the distance, she sees the garden, the river, the shelter, and a boulder.

The shapeshifter follows her every step. Her gaze startles him; she looks over her shoulder only to find him disappearing the second their gazes cross. He might have transformed into a rock. She continues resting as if nothing had happened.

Juno’s world is layered. The topmost layer is the Summit. A mountain towers over the infinite world, giants reside on the cliffs and watch over the world. Guardians shield its exposed slopes from the scorching star’s heat.
The Summit is home to the deprived. It is not a place of choice. No one arrives willingly, and no one departs of their own accord. Most spend their time here living at the mountain’s slopes for eternity, while the brave few set out to conquer the summit and reach the top. One thing is certain: no one returns to the overworld. The ones who reach the peak ascend into the Garden: the end of everything, a place where time does not pass. Those who fail are cast below, sinking into the tundra or vanishing into the caves. Then the journey begins anew.

Juno is near the top. A signpost towers in front of her. Determined more than ever, she packed her bags, stood in front of the left indicator reading “The Garden - thirty minutes” for a good minute, then continued the final ascent. The final push.
The end is close at hand.

Grass became thinner with each step. The trees became scarcer and scarcer, disappearing completely after a few hundred meters. In front of her, she sees a rocky ridge line, clouds covering the Garden and boulders crashing down the slope.
The ground is collapsing into itself.
“Is this really it?” she murmured as fog began to cover the ridge. She hastens her step but slips on a mossy stone just below the Garden.
The shapeshifter was right behind her.

I do not know what happened next. Sister and I stood next to her bed. We could not enter the world of the Summit and help her reach the Garden. There was no way to set her free. All we could do was watch as the shapeshifter moved behind her eyes, pulling her down to the lowest depths, returning her to where she had been a year before. But she fought nevertheless, until her last breath.

And that was it. The end.

I remember: even though we did not announce her departure, people came into the room as soon as she closed her eyes. There was no need to say anything.
I cannot say it was the end of a life. Existing bedridden for years, having experienced only two or three memories worth mentioning beforehand cannot be classified as life. It was the end of an existence, nothing more.

Her husband, Cassini, asked me to grab her by the hands and help him carry her from the third floor to the ambulance already waiting outside the front door. I’ve never touched hands like hers before. Cracks covered them from left to right. Blood vessels ruptured or severly dilated, her hands were the only remaining witness of how she spent her days before the disease took over. Cassini never cared for Juno. There was never a job too tough for her to tackle. Working twelve hours a day and caring for her husband rest of the time, she resembled more of a machine capable of periodic emotions rather than a human being.
And if she malfunctioned, Cassini was sure to punish her and fix the “glitch”. All the blisters on her hands and the work she had done was never enough.

“She was a lovely woman,” he said, barely sobbing, as we watched the ambulance crew cover her in white sheets.
“My condolences. I hope heaven gained another angel,” I responded.
“Amen.”

Sister and I returned to our home soon after.

I cannot remember how many years have passed since her departure. I too have left the physical world three hundred years ago.
And I was the first one to reach the Summit and reside in the Garden. Not soon after, Juno arrived to accompany me.
I was no longer the only one in the garden. Another one now sat next to the boulder and watched the seasons change.
It will not be long until thousands of souls arrive in our shelter. Until then, we will expand it as much as we can. But there is no need to rush.

We have an eternity to spend here.