The old man lay in his bed, surrounded by the memories of a lifetime. He closed his eyes, and with a final breath, he was gone.
But just before that, he had been sitting in his favorite armchair, holding a small, leather-bound book. He had been reading the last entry, written in his own shaky handwriting.
Earlier that day, he had been walking through the garden, feeling the warm sun on his face and the cool breeze in his hair. He had stopped to smell the roses, and remembered the day he had proposed to his wife among those very same flowers.
Before that, he had been sitting in his study, surrounded by papers and photographs. He had been writing in his journal, trying to make sense of the events of his life.
Further back still, he had been standing in the doorway of his childhood home, saying goodbye to his parents as he set off into the world.
And before that, he had been a young boy, playing in the fields and forests around his village. He had been full of energy and curiosity, with his whole life stretching out before him.
But at the very beginning, he had been a tiny baby, lying in his mother's arms and crying out into the world.
