Everything in this world must end—an immutable truth as relentless as time itself. Rivers run dry, flames flicker into darkness, and even Life, that most precious of gifts, must one day surrender to eternity.
No matter how fiercely men cling to their years, death comes for us all. That is why purpose is essential—to live in such a way that when the final hour arrives, one may close their eyes without regret and embrace the rest they have earned.
Words make it sound simple. Reality is far crueler. The world turns against you. Your own body betrays you. Pain carves its mark deep, and only those who have suffered the same agony can truly understand. The poor will never grasp the burdens of the rich, nor the healthy the torment of the broken. But as it is said: nothing lasts forever.
And so, at last, old Rockwell Sunrise reached his end. Not the peaceful conclusion he had envisioned, but an ending all the same.
The scriptures teach that God sends us into this world to be tested—that every breath we take, every trial we endure, is a measure of our worth. Every wound, every loss, every whispered prayer—all of it was ordained. Rockwell believed this. He believed it was his fate to become a soldier, to save lives, to lose everything, and to yearn for the simplest of dreams. Rockwell was no ordinary man. He was an impossibility. A living anomaly. By sixty, he stood a giant among men—literally. 3 meters.
Gigantism was his curse. With it came a body at war with itself. Bones thickened, joints ached, flesh strained against its own growth. His heart labored, his lungs heaved, his very metabolism raged like a forge. And yet, none of it broke him.
Society had no place for a child who towered over his peers by ten. Mocked as a freak, barred from the innocence of youth, he walked through life a specter—too vast for doorways, too monstrous for compassion. Only one refuge remained: his family. His parents, who had known suffering before him, armed him not with pity, but with resolve. They filled his mind with knowledge, hardened his spirit against scorn, and taught him to stand unshaken.
And so he did.
The world called him "the Anomaly," then "the Living Goliath," until at last, they simply named him Goliath. Against all odds, he thrived. Where others with his affliction withered before forty, he endured—his body not weakened by gigantism, but forged by it.
"Beautiful," Rockwell murmured.
He was elsewhere now. Somewhere beyond the earth, beyond the end. A place that felt like the after—the quiet that follows the storm.
Before him stretched vast fields of green. The majestic sun was setting on the horizon, enveloping everything in its light, painting the sky orange and bathing the world in its final rays of warmth.
A sunset. What a beautiful phenomenon to close HIS book of life.
The grass beneath his feet was soft, and the view was incredible. It was neither cold nor hot
He sat upon a broad, flat stone, dressed in his favorite attire—a long trench coat draped over his shoulders, a blue shirt with sleeves rolled to expose forearms corded with muscle, white trousers, and polished black shoes. Every stitch tailored, every seam measured. All his clothing was made by his personal tailors, just as his household appliances were custom-made. Fortunately, his personal budget had never been an issue.
Even his barber was trained to work with his hair. His first-class skills kept Rockwell's beard sharp and his hair short but stylish
Sunrise loved wearing glasses, purple ones that were very popular in the 80s. Though the trend had passed, in his opinion, these glasses were the best. In fact, glasses were the best accessory of all, and his extensive collection proved it. But now, the glasses were on his forehead so they wouldn't interfere with his enjoyment of this beautiful view. Even the air. Everything in this place was perfect.
For the first time in decades, he felt light.
"A shame the rest of the world couldn't know peace like this," he mused, leaning forward, hands clasped between his knees. "Life was never fair. I endured every trial You set before me. My faith never wavered. My will only grew stronger. And yet…" He tilted his head back, eyes tracing the heavens. "I wish there had been more joy."
A sigh escaped him. "You gave me everything, and for all of it, I am grateful. I am grateful for giving me such a strong father, such a kind mother, such a loyal brother, and such a loving family. I am Your creation, and I hope I passed these trials correctly." His voice was quiet. Rockwell wasn't expecting an answer; he was merely speaking aloud what was on his mind. "And though my desires may be insignificant, allow me to say..." Rockwell closed his eyes.
The old man straightened up, taking a deep breath. "The end of my life was ordained long ago, and I have no right to pity myself... But..." His voice faltered. "I had hoped to die differently. To have known a wife. To have held a child of my own." He removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "But what's done is done. It simply… I didn't do good things enough."
Night fell, but no chill came. Only silence.
"May my deeds be worthy of Gates of Haven," he whispered. Then, with a faint smile, he slid the glasses back on. "Heh. If I'd had more time, maybe I'd have adopted. Opened a business. Would've been nice."
The old giant rose to his full height, and this place seemed to acknowledge him. For the first time in years, he felt alive. What an irony.
Something stirred in the air—a presence, a whisper. Rockwell lifted his gaze once more, and with a slow, sure nod, he smiled.
"I'm ready."