Story for "The Twilight of the Flesh" The Twilight of the Flesh There were no hammers or screams. There was only weariness. Asel had lived a long life, burdened with mistakes and fleeting moments of unbearable beauty. In the end, he was not punished by the gods, but consumed by melancholy. He sought the heart of the forest, a place where time turned to mud and colors faded into perpetual gloom, just as you depict in your work. He joined the trunk he deemed worthy, not out of obligation, but by final choice. It was an act of slowness and consent. The Twilight of the Flesh is not instantaneous. It is a transition. Nerves retract, muscle fibers relax and melt into the cold embrace of the bark. The skin does not tear; it becomes a translucent veil that allows a glimpse of the core of wood that absorbs it. The vibrant red of life recedes like a tide, leaving only a trail of pastel and blurred ochre tones, like those you have captured with your crayons in that central area.