Carving Steps in The Roof of The World

“Let your heart keep her commandments. For they will add length to your days.”

“Bind wrath around your neck. Write gluttony on the tablet of your heart.”

The old man had always been told that the key to a long life was to keep your heart's commandments. But, as he lay on his death bed, he realized that he had not done so. In his lifetime, he had been greedy and wrathful. He had not written gluttony on the tablet of his heart. And now it was too late.

He knew that he would soon be crossing over to the other side and he wanted to make things right before he went. So, in his last moments, he carved steps into the roof of the world and bound wrath around his neck. He knew that if he could just find forgiveness, his soul would be at peace.

The old man sat on the edge of his bed, breathing heavily. The doctors had said it was a miracle he was still alive - after the fall, they had all but given up on him. But here he was, miraculously recovering.

Slowly, painfully, he rose to his feet and made his way to the window. He gazed out at the snow-capped mountains, their beauty a stark contrast to the darkness that lurked in his heart.

For years now, he had been consumed by anger and hatred. His life's purpose became nothing more than seeking revenge against those who had wronged him. But it hadn't brought him happiness - only pain and suffering.

And then, one day, he met her. She was gentle and kind, and she showed him what it means to love and be loved in return. Her simple presence eased his soul and for the first time in years, he felt peace inside him.

But it was not to last. The old man's enemies found him again, this time with deadly intent. In a desperate attempt to save her life, he pushed her away and took the brunt of the attack himself...

Months later, as he lay dying in hospital bed, all he could think about was how much he regretted not being able to spend more time with her - and how grateful he was that she had shown him what true happiness feels like before it was too late.



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The Notebooks of D’ni

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Borji’toga the Unformed