Adopting kids with Multiverse Cafe

Sunset is like a quiet sigh after a long and busy day. The sun, tired from its labors, sinks below the horizon, leaving behind a canvas of fiery colors. The last rays, not so hot anymore, but still full of warmth, caress the earth like a farewell kiss.

This is the time when everything around you stops, as if listening to the silence. The trees standing still seem to sink into a deep sleep, and the birds have long since hidden in their nests.

Sunset is a sign of the end of the day, of rest, of quiet reflection. It is a reminder that everything in the world has its cycle, that even the brightest light will sooner or later fade.

But in this fading there is no sadness, only calmness and anticipation of a new day. After all, after the sunset always comes the dawn, which means new opportunities, new hopes, new life.

Too bad these thoughts are shattered by something hard, something unstoppable. Like death.

The two figures seated on the massive rock were an astonishing contrast against the glowing horizon, their eyes—or what should have been eyes—fixed on the fading sunset. The first was an imposing giant of a man, towering at an unbelievable 8.6 feet. His body was a marvel, defying every limitation typically faced by those of extraordinary height. Muscles rippled beneath his loose blue shirt, each fiber honed to perfection. His straight posture and the strength radiating from his frame made him seem more a force of nature than a man, a monument of power. Though old in years, with a neatly trimmed gray beard and a hard, angular chin, his age only added to his mystique.

Half of his hair had faded to gray, but the other half still retained its dark hue, as if time had decided to spare part of him. A pair of expensive, purple-tinted glasses obscured his eyes, hiding whatever thoughts may have been brewing behind them. Draped over his massive frame was an oversized white trench coat, the garment billowing slightly in the breeze like a cape. Its length exaggerated his already broad shoulders, making him look even more massive. White pants completed the ensemble, paired with dark, polished shoes that gleamed in the fading light. Despite his years, he was built like a fortress—immovable, unyielding.

Beside this colossal figure sat something not quite human. The second figure, draped in utter darkness, was more shadow than man. His form was draped in an elegant tuxedo, yet even that seemed woven from the very essence of blackness itself. It clung to him, a void in the shape of a man. His hands, long and slender, held a lit cigarette that burned with a faint glow, its ember flickering like the last remnants of the day. But where a face should have been, there was only more blackness.

Not a mask, not a shadow obscuring features—there simply was no face. The darkness that formed him enveloped his head entirely, offering no clue of what lay beneath, if anything did at all. No one could have made out any features, not the man beside him, nor anyone else who might have looked upon him. The darkness he wore seemed alive, shifting and pulsing subtly, a constant reminder that this was no ordinary figure. He wasn't of this world.

Together, the two sat in silence, the soft hum of the wind swirling around them as the sun dipped lower into the horizon. The warm hues of orange, pink, and violet bathed them in light, yet the second figure absorbed it all, the colors vanishing into his form as though swallowed by an eternal night. The rock they sat on was enormous, weathered smooth by time, and somehow comforting despite its cold, hard surface. The first man, like a mountain in his own right, stared out at the horizon, unmoving, a pillar of flesh and bone. The second, ever-shifting, ever-smoking, exhaled a slow plume of smoke that drifted upwards, curling and twisting in the air before vanishing into the twilight.

"The friendliest man dies alone. Funny, that." The shadow spoke, a cigarette in place where a mouth should be. His voice was low, masculine, carrying the quiet weight of someone who had seen too much. A man of average height, he stood beside the massive human mountain draped in a white coat, the contrast between them as stark as night and day. His words hung in the air, barely more than a whisper, yet filled with a faint sadness.

"All that's left of this man is a shell," replied the older man, his tone just as calm but deeper, like velvet draped over a worn heart. He sat motionless, his enormous hands resting on his knees as he gazed out at the dying sun. The orange and purple hues of the sunset reflected in his expensive purple-tinted glasses, but he wasn't seeing it—at least, not in the way one normally does. His eyes, hidden behind the lenses, seemed to look past the horizon, beyond the cliff's edge, unbothered by the perilous height beneath him. Slowly, he inhaled, filling his lungs with the air around him, knowing full well that this wasn't the world he once knew. It couldn't be. Not anymore.

"It's not your fault. Everything you could have done, you did. Your strength was enough. Everyone knows that," the shadow continued, his voice steady yet laced with a deep understanding, as though he had spoken these words a thousand times before to souls far more lost than Rockwell.

The old man, Rockwell, let out a long, trembling sigh. His massive shoulders slumped, the weight of his years pressing down on him as he spoke, barely above a whisper. "So I didn't do enough. With all I had, I couldn't save her—my beloved. All I wanted was the simplest thing... so ordinary. There's no selfishness in it. There's nothing wrong with wanting happiness, is there?"

The shadow watched the giant beside him, smoke trailing lazily from his cigarette as he took another long drag. "No, my friend. There's nothing wrong with it at all. You deserve that happiness."

Rockwell's hands, those massive hands capable of breaking mountains, clenched into trembling fists. "I wanted a family. I wanted to hold my child in my arms. To see my grandchildren running around. To leave my mark on the world. To make sure... I was remembered."

"You will always be remembered, Rockwell," the shadow said softly, his dark form shifting slightly as though moved by some unseen breeze. "There are many you've inspired. Many who will carry your name long after the dust settles. I've heard it firsthand."

Rockwell hummed in acknowledgment, lifting his gaze back toward the sun. Its golden light washed over him, the warmth of it soothing his weathered soul. Through his tinted glasses, he stared into the brilliance of the sun, searching for something—perhaps answers, perhaps peace. He didn't know which. He didn't turn to the shadow beside him, for he knew by now there would be nothing to see. He had tried before, and failed. Instead, his voice came out softly, as if he had been contemplating the question for some time. "You're not death, are you?"

The shadow took another drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing brightly for a brief moment before he exhaled a thin stream of smoke, watching it curl and dissolve into the twilight. "No. I'm not death, and I'm not the savior either. I'm just a watcher... and a helper. I guide the lonely souls on their way, help them find their path.Before Judgement begins. That's what I was made for, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. I've heard countless thoughts, felt endless sorrows, and in rare moments, I've seen one person change another lifes forever. Those are the moments that are remembered for centuries."

Rockwell turned his gaze back to the horizon, letting the words wash over him. Something about the shadow's voice, calm and unwavering, felt like the first drop of rain after a long drought. "And would you know, Rockwell Callahan," the shadow continued, his voice carrying the weight of eons, "you've become that beacon you always dreamed of being."

For the first time, Rockwell's lips twitched into something resembling a smile. He knew now what this was. He knew where he was—where he wasn't. This wasn't the end he had dreamed of, but it wasn't the worst either. If the shadow's words were true, then maybe, just maybe, some part of his dream had come to pass.

"I'm glad," Rockwell whispered, his voice barely carrying on the wind. "I wish I could have done more. I really do. I wish I'd lived long enough to hear someone kick down my door shouting, 'Grandpa!'" He chuckled, a deep, hearty sound that rumbled from his chest like distant thunder. It was the first time he had laughed like that in years, free of bitterness, free of regret.

The shadow beside him remained silent, but if he could smile, perhaps he would have in that moment.

.

Rockwell rose from his seat, his immense form seeming even more colossal now that he stood at full height. The world around him seemed to shrink, yet it was clear he was no longer part of it. He lifted his head, gazing up at the vast, breathtaking sky, painted in the soft hues of the evening. The fading light bathed him in shades of orange and purple, as if the heavens themselves were acknowledging his presence. His voice, when he spoke, carried a new confidence, as though he was addressing not just the world around him, but something far beyond it.

"I wish I could have felt this peace before eternal rest," he said, his words slow, deliberate. "When I was a boy, I always dreamed of being strong for my family. It's strange, isn't it? All these years, that dream stayed with me. And it's you, my friend—your presence—that's pulling this frankness out of me." He chuckled softly, shaking his head, but there was a gentle smile on his lips now, the first true smile he had worn in ages. "Before I reunite with my Dolores, I wish I could show her the children and grandchildren we always wanted. I wish I could be the grandfather who helps those in need, who watches over them with the same strength I've carried my whole life."

There was a rawness to his words, a deep vulnerability that came from the very core of his soul. He wasn't just speaking to his companion now—he was speaking to the universe, to his lost love, to the dream he had held onto for so long. The memory of Dolores, the woman who had been his heart and his anchor, filled his mind. He could almost see her smile, hear her laughter. And the ache of her absence, while still there, was somehow quieter now, softened by the honesty of the moment.

The shadow in the tuxedo lingered beside him, and to Rockwell's quiet delight, there was a shift in the shadow's voice. Where it had once been neutral, distant, there was now a warmth, subtle but unmistakable. It was the kind of warmth that only comes from shared understanding, from seeing a soul laid bare.

"Anything can happen, my friend," the shadow said softly. "I am but a guide. I don't know what awaits the souls who pass through my hands. But I hope, with everything in me, that you find the peace you seek. And maybe, just maybe, you'll find that family again."

Rockwell nodded slowly, letting the words sink in. He didn't need promises; he didn't need certainty. For the first time in a long time, he found that he was okay with not knowing. The journey he had been on, the battles he had fought, they all led to this moment of quiet, where hope and acceptance intertwined. And the company of his strange new companion—this shadow who had no face but whose presence felt real, solid—was comforting in a way Rockwell had never expected.

"I appreciate your company," Rockwell said after a moment, his voice low and thoughtful. "I'm sorry... for being such an emotional old man. It's not often I open up like this." He chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, as if trying to brush away the vulnerability that had surfaced. "It's not fair of me to ask, but... do you have a name?"

The shadow seemed to pause for a moment, as if contemplating the question. Then, in that same warm, gentle tone, he replied, "It would be an honor if you simply called me your friend."

Rockwell's smile widened, his heart swelling with gratitude. There was something profoundly simple, yet deeply meaningful, in those words. He felt a kinship with this strange being, a connection that went beyond the physical. For the first time in a long while, he felt less alone.

"Then it's my honor as well, my friend," Rockwell said softly, his voice filled with sincerity. With a quiet sigh of contentment, he slowly lowered himself back onto the rock. The cold surface was surprisingly comfortable, almost welcoming. He rested his hands on his knees, his massive frame now at ease, his heart lighter than it had been in years.

The two sat in silence once more, watching as the last slivers of sunlight dipped below the horizon.

Behind them, a new light began to form—soft at first, a distant glimmer, but quickly growing brighter. It was pure, radiant, like the beacon of a lighthouse cutting through the darkest night. The glow intensified, casting long shadows on the ground, reaching out across the vast landscape. It filled the air with a sense of purpose, like a force neither could ignore. Both Rockwell and the shadow felt it, the quiet stillness around them stirred by the brightness. The world seemed to hold its breath.

Rockwell's eyes, weary but clear, drifted toward the light, his heart tightening with understanding. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, his companion—the shadow—broke the silence.

"Then it's time, Rockwell."

The words were soft but final, like the closing of a chapter. Rockwell nodded, his heart both heavy and light. He knew what this meant. His journey in this place was ending, yet something new awaited him beyond that light.

"Yes, it is, my friend," Rockwell agreed, his deep voice steady, but tinged with a bittersweet note. Slowly, he rose from his seat, his immense frame moving with a kind of reverence, as if the very act of standing was a farewell. He glanced down at the shadow, who remained seated, unmoving, taking a slow drag from his cigarette, the ember flickering in the fading twilight.

Rockwell realized this was how it was meant to be. His friend would not follow. He didn't need to. His place was here, in the quiet, guiding souls like Rockwell to the next stage of their journey. And somehow, that was perfectly alright.

"Thank you, my friend," Rockwell said, his voice filled with gratitude and warmth. "Your words helped an old man make peace with himself."

A small, kind smile played on Rockwell's lips as he looked at the shadow. He knew this was goodbye, yet there was no sorrow in it—only a deep sense of appreciation for the company he had been given in these final moments. Rockwell took a step back, his body heavy with the weight of emotion, but his soul lighter than it had been in years.

And though the shadow remained still, his head made the smallest, almost imperceptible motion—just enough for Rockwell to sense the connection, the unspoken bond between them. He didn't turn fully, didn't reveal what lay beneath the darkness. But the gesture was there. Real.

"You're welcome, Rockwell Callahan," the shadow said, his voice softened by something more than duty—perhaps, friendship. "It's been a long time since I've had a conversation like this. I hope, this time, your happiness is truly in your hands."

Rockwell smiled, broad and full, his face creasing with the joy of a man who had found his way after a long, hard journey. He exhaled slowly, the breath carrying away the last traces of doubt. "I hope someday we can talk again," he said, his voice quieter now, yet filled with hope, "under different circumstances, my friend."

The shadow, still seated on the rock, nodded slightly, his form a silhouette against the glowing light behind Rockwell. "Me too, my old friend."

Rockwell took one last look at the shadow, his heart swelling with a strange comfort. Then, with one final breath, he turned and stepped toward the light. The brightness enveloped him, warm and inviting, pulling him forward into the unknown. But he wasn't afraid. Not anymore.

And as the light embraced him, the shadow remained, seated on the rock, watching his friend disappear into the glow, his cigarette burning low, a thin trail of smoke rising into the night. The world was quiet again, but in that silence, something had shifted. Rockwell was gone, but his presence lingered, and the shadow—his companion, his guide—sat with the peace of knowing he had done his part.