I should have died in that rubble, but no. My house that was made of stone crumbled and fell on me. At the age of 730, I should have been dead like the ancestors before me. But here I am, lying on a hospital bed, assuming another identity in a place I’m not even sure of. I’ve been wandering across all the Earth since that day I “died”. I’ve lost count on how many identities I assumed and lived through. My soul is too old and I’m tired of being an immortal. But what could I do? This is my curse. This is my destiny. How I wish this identity would be my last.
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