The world before my eyes is stained red, smelling of iron. I can hear my own ragged breathing.

The hand that once gripped the hammer has no strength left in it.

Only the sky reflected in my upturned vision is out of place, shining brightly.

I swallow back a cough and turn my head toward you.

I weave the next words before a reply can come. Because I'm terrified of what it would mean if you didn't answer.

It's a trivial, tiny promise, completely out of place for a moment like this.

But if I don't make a promise, I'll lose my reason to see you again.

No matter how small it is, I force my fading consciousness to work, trying to create a reason to meet you.