The Man Who Chose to Die

He was breathing while the meteor wiped dinosaurs off the Earth. He witnessed the innovation of trains and steam engines. He outlived all revolutions and managed to survive plagues that weakened all the living—though immortal, he was not invincible. Bestowed his sights on enough historical circumstances for 50 generations. He danced in candlelit palaces before they became museums. He composed symphonies no one would ever hear, burying them in time like pearly white bones. He scaled mountains only to sit and stare, searching the horizon for something different. For centuries, he has lived for beauty. For thrill. For indulgence. For greed. And when those wilted, he sought out other forms of distraction to please him. He had been called prophet, god, man, monster, saint. Some offered him riches and other threw stones—both he welcomed as he knew there was no end of his existence. Whether it be manipulation through riches or bruises through stones, his will to live lasted longer than the earth could provide any mere mortal. Cities rose around him. Empires fell beneath him. Lovers aged beside him—then beneath him, in graves now lost to maps.

He painted Renaissance Italy, condensing minerals long gone.  Danced in Paris to symphonies written by forgotten men—their music outliving them for nothing.  He climbed Everest—impressed at its stature surviving as long as he has. He once lived in a marble palace by the sea, where the tide sang lullabies against the stone. He left after fifty years—once the sea stopped singing. Immortality was a fickle thing. It could provide one with all the time in the world that it begins to negate the basis of why we are even here. He saw it as opportunity endless. Countless roads to take to satisfy his needs—countless oysters to rule. He satiated more desires than most could even fathom wanting. He ruled, he traveled, he conquered—a nomad fueled on lust for life it blinded him to all else. While it appeared to him he had done it all and reveled in doing so, only to the naked eye could one see he lacked what it took to care for anything other than himself. A woman beside him, awaiting the same train as him, shivered in the rain, her coat soaked through enough to drip steadily at her feet. He held an umbrella meant for two but never tilted it toward her—let alone even look at her. He once stepped aside to let paramedics enter the shop he just exited—never once turning his head to watch who they rushed to. He didn’t’ see the child behind him, fists clenched and eyes wide with hope. He only smiled at the soft clatter of the last candy bar tumbling down the metal machine. Sweetness melted on his tongue as the boy walked away, empty-handed.

He ventured to the ruined palace that was once his. Unwilling to open his eye to the ruins, nor what occurred to result in its nonexistence, he sidesteps a crack in the pavement to reach the monument in his name—all that remains of his legacy other than him to remember. The statue sat in the center of a broken fountain that was once surrounded by riches, townspeople, and wild fauna. Now all that remained was a marble pillar the size of a hundred-year-old tree, molded and chiseled to form him bestowed with a crown and smile. Though he walked the remains of his kingdom like a ghost, he grinned ear to ear at the sight of his admiration. As the sun began the set, and his eyes grew tired, he stole one last look before leaving. Sidestepping the same crack in the pavement he did as he entered, he noticed a wee rose bloomed within it. Something he thought strange given how far beneath the pavement the dirt begins but continued on nonetheless.

A week passed before returning to the broken kingdom. He sometimes wondered if anyone visited the statue and pondered his reign, or if children roamed the empty kingdom and wonder how long it had been since resident livelihood’s pulsed with life. The sun began to set again—content in knowing he always had tomorrow, he turned to leave. He noticed the crack in the pavement once again—or rather the rose rooted within it. He was reminded of his confusion with its capability of blooming in the first place given that there was little rain as well. Shrugging, he continued.

Another week came and went. It eased him to know that he never grew tired of seeing what once thrived beneath him. And what still stands before him in praise and celebration. He walked closer to admire the overgrown flora that lies in broken fountain. Wild vines sprouted and warped beneath his marble footing. With the signal of days end painting the sky in sherbert orange and pale pink, He turned and walked away. He looked at the rose within the crack and saw a difference today. It had begun to wilt. He smiled as he realized his accuracy in pointing out its short lifespan with the drought looming. It was also a nice reminder that he would never wilt that way. Countless years have passed and he remains youthful and quick minded as ever—something only he could ever rid.

An additional week passed. The marble withstood as strong as ever. Part of him wondered if he would outlive it. Should a national disaster occur, he will be able to earn an answer. He turned and saw the rose had wilted once more. Two petals, cracked and dead, lying beneath it. He wondered if anyone else had seen it. Hardly considering the enormous work of art behind it, but it had drawn his attention with every farewell to his legacy.

A week passed once again. This time, he noticed two boys roughhousing in the ruins. Two wooden sticks ejected with their arms outstretched towards the other like steel swords. He chuckled at their fun, walking towards his statue once again, until he saw the rose beneath their feet. An inch away from being stepped on. He yelled in pursuit towards them. Exhibiting the behavior of a mad man as he shooed them away from the helpless plant. The two boys ran to continue their duel somewhere else, and it was only after he could not see their silhouettes anymore that he turned toward the rose. He knelt and saw another petal had been added to the pile of deceased faded cellulose. Its leaves began to crack and shrivel—a day away from departing the stem to land atop the pile. He pondered to himself how he would even reach the plant—plucking it was out of the question. He scoured the area and sought a rough chunk of rubble, big enough to grip with two hands, and slammed it into the opening next to the little plant. Trivial change was made, only a millimeter extension of the crack. He slammed it once again. And then a few thousand times after that—determined to reach the base of the rose. Pieces of the pavement broke loose long after the sun had already set, and it was only then that he was able to reach one hand and feel the dry soil. Difficult to do without sunlight, he managed to dig deeper into the loam and feel for the gradual end of the root. He dug a few inches beneath its end and pulled to remove a bit more than a handful of dirt with the rose centered inside it. He scooped more dirt from the opening to place it into the only housing he could presently provide—his coat pocket. Large enough to house over a handful of dry soil, he stuffed his pocket to the brim with the head of the rose peeking out. A temporary home sturdy enough to use until he returned to his modern castle and find a pot.

After searching high and low, he realized he did not own a pot. Not one for plants anyway. The luxury vases he did own were much too large for the wee thing. Begrudgingly he settled for the next best thing—an empty goblet. One molded from gold, decorated in jewels, and once used for lavish feasts and toasts to praise his victories. Now it housed a life no bigger than 12 inches.  He poured freshwater into the goblet and contemplated what to do next. He hoped not to have overwatered it and wondered if it would even want more sunlight after sitting in nothing but a practical desert for months. He settled on placing the goblet on the bedside nightstand about a foot away from the balcony. He lied awake thinking of the irony layered behind the goblet. He once filled it with wine. Now it cradled something fragile—something that didn’t ask to be owned or admired, only kept alive. It was only when his eyes began to drift closed that he realized he had not even seen his statue that day.

He awoke to see the rose beginning to demonstrate better signs of life. Far fewer cracks in the stem, he noted. The more he analyzed the timid plant he wondered if anyone else had noticed its existence before. What had it taken for it to even sprout from the pavement? The perfect amount of sunlight and miniscule amount of water was enough for it to be born out of 6 inches of concrete. Would anyone have stopped for the rose? Had anyone stopped already and simply looked before walking away without a thought? Would anyone have mourned, if it had withered? For the first time in centuries, the thought unsettled him. Not that something so delicate could die—he had seen death too often for it to shock him—but that it could die without ever being known. That it could vanish without ever having meant anything to anyone at all. He might be the one to kill it—by accident, by carelessness, by time—but at least now, someone would remember it had bloomed. He wondered if it would be thankful. Or if it secretly hated him for removing it from the brink of death. While immortality was something he held dearly, he knew the rose only had an allotted amount of time left on Earth. With this realization, he decided to bring the goblet with him on his journey to the ocean today.

He held the goblet close to his chest as he walked—crisp breeze flitting between its petals. Once in the sand, he sat with the goblet wedged inside the spot next to him. He enjoyed the beach countless times before. He had sunk his toes into the sand of every single beach graced with a location. He hadn’t been a stranger to companionship on one either. But this time felt different—he found himself sheltering the goblet from dangerous waves and stole glances at the feeble rose, as if to see its reaction other than stillness. He had always welcomed the quiet and wondered if the rose did too. He hoped it was happy—the sun surely felt different when reflected across the clear waters as well as the breeze.  This thought baffled him, the strange need to protect something so small snuck up on him. He had cared for nothing but himself for centuries and had wished for nothing more, yet here he was, adjusting the goblet when the wind grew sharp, shielding a creature that lacked understanding of its own existence let alone his. Why did he want it happy? The thought perplexed him. The rose did not smile. It didn’t speak. It didn’t know him. Still, he found himself turning it toward the golden hour of sun as if to let it bask. He had walked past billions of lives—each one flickering and fading like candles in a storm. And now here he was, cradling a bloom that might not live the week.

Sense it did not make. But he still hoped it liked the breeze and sounds of the sea.

A week passed and the rose began blooming with life once again, a fact that had him grinning from ear to ear because surely his efforts to keep it alive and prosperous had to contribute to its bloom. He had taken it with him on his travels.

He scoured mountains with the goblet in tow, wondering if the rose felt the air different at higher altitudes the way humans can. He stood beneath the northern lights—a rare phenomenon he was not a stranger to visiting but he held his grip tightly on the goblet. He turned its petals upward, hoping it could feel the sky dancing—wondering if the rays of moonlight lighting up the night sky felt different than that of day to the little rose. It accompanied him at an outdoor violin concert. He sat on the grass with the goblet seated next to him. He could’ve sworn he saw it sway with the crescendo of the strings—but any other person would have thought it be the wind.

With every venture with the rose he found himself lighter. Less wrapped in selfishness but found comfort in cherishing something other than his immortality. The rose required nothing from him—no praise, no history, no promises—and yet he was willing to give it everything. It would never thank him, let alone know him. And still, he shielded it from harsh rain, carried it up mountains, and gave it a designated comfortable spot on his balcony. He’d lived lifetimes surrounded by those who desired his wisdom, his power, his time. The rose asked for none of it.

The rose could not even provide anything in return and perhaps that’s why it mattered. It expected nothing from him and held nothing material for him to preserve, and somehow, he could not fathom going back to the life he led before the rose.

 With nothing but petals and leaves to its name, it had given him more purpose than any crown or monument ever had. He cared for it not because he had to, not for fortune or trade, but because he wanted to. For the first time, that was enough. He only hoped it had enjoyed the life lived with him instead of isolated in a crack in the pavement.

On the 17th day, a petal fell. He didn’t speak. He just held it closer.

Very little things were able to remind him that time is fleeting. He had lived for longer than he could count and longer than anyone would remember. It baffled him to be rendered speechless at the idea of this rose being gone. Faded from Earth—its existence known to no one but his memory. This wee rose born from a crack in the ruins had managed to affect him more than the countless lives he’d met and moved on from—each one leaving an even smaller impression than the last.

With its first signs of wilt, he separated from the rose only in sleep. When his eyes remained open, the goblet remained at his side. He was determined to keep the rose at his level—for it was not something beneath him or worthless. It had managed to earn his attention and compassion with absolutely nothing to give him but purpose. He’d brought it to a black sand beach when the second petal fell. While not a botanist in his centuries of careers, he knew the allotted time for a rose was nowhere near the length of a mortal human. But the blatant yet delicate symbol of decay was too much to see that tears had threatened to peek out the corners of his eyes. He didn’t catch the petal. He just watched it drift, slow and quiet, like something irreparable and irreplaceable being let go.

It began to feel like with every new sight he brought the goblet to, the more the petals fell. It almost felt like a cruel joke. A man who has all the time in the world to achieve everything he could ever want—satiate every desire to ever be thought. A man who had withstood the test of time and seen all there is to see, and a simple rose was enough to teach him what centuries could not—that to love something other than just himself has gifted him true meaning. He was happy. The ability to ache for loving something for no reason but that it exists brought him to a smile. Not one of amusement, or irony, but of peace. One exemplifying his farewell to life.

It was when the rose had only a sole petal that he came to a decision.

He had been immortal—he lived for centuries beyond what a mortal could even comprehend witnessing. He had lived by his own belt; chasing beauty, pleasure, and thrill across history books, satisfying his desires without a second thought for others. But not once in all those years had he wept over a flower. Not once had he cared enough for anything to whisper encouragement to—let alone something so small and incapable of speaking. Not once had he stayed up through the night just to shield something fragile from the wind. And now, with its final breath clinging to a single petal, he understood something he never did before: that love does not need to last forever to make a life worth living. That loving only himself for what has been the closest to forever one could ever get, has not made life worth living. It was only once he cared for the fickle rose did he ever learn of compassion and love for something larger than just him.

He had given the rose everything. And in return, this plant born from the ruins gave him the one thing he thought he would never find. A reason to stop living.

The rose wisped its final petal to the base of the goblet in a delicate goodbye. His fingers became white-knuckled with his heartbroken grip on it. The final petal lay curled in his palms like a farewell. And so, in the same quiet way the rose has slipped from life, he chose to follow. He walked back to the ruins—where it had all began. He sat, goblet in hand, and closed his eyes.