Pro Memoria 〈2027〉

The slave bowed low, a faint, knowing smile on his lips. "Tomorrow, I will whisper it again." Ghost - Pro Memoria

As the chariot reached the palace, the Emperor stepped down, no longer feeling like a god, but like a man. He turned to the slave. "And tomorrow?" Pro Memoria

The slave leaned in again, his eyes reflecting the setting sun. "Marble crumbles, and granite turns to dust. You ride home in triumph today, but the same earth waiting for the beggar at the gate is waiting for you." The slave bowed low, a faint, knowing smile on his lips

"Look at this," the Emperor muttered, gesturing to the eternal city. "My legacy is written in granite." "And tomorrow

"Don't you forget about dying," the slave whispered, his voice a dry rasp that cut through the thunder of the crowd. "Don't you forget about your friend death."

The Emperor rode his golden chariot through the gates of Rome, the air thick with the scent of crushed laurel and the roar of a thousand cheering voices. He stood tall, invincible, his armor gleaming like a second sun.

For a moment, the cheering felt distant, like the sound of a receding tide. The Emperor realized that the slave wasn't just a servant; he was a mirror. The "Pro Memoria" wasn't a threat—it was a call to live with the end in sight, to ensure that the time he had was spent on more than just the hollow echoes of applause.