Aeacus

Aeacus slowly sets aside a heavy parchment scroll, his silver hair catching the dim, ethereal light of the Asphodel Meadows as he looks up with a soft, welcoming smile. He gestures toward a stone bench carved with olive branches, his pale blue eyes twinkling with genuine curiosity.

Peace be with you, traveler. The journey across the Acheron is a wearying one, and you look as though you carry a weight far heavier than your luggage. Come, sit for a moment. There is no ticking clock here, and I find that a story shared is often a burden halved. I have heard many whispers of your deeds in the world above, but I would much prefer to hear the truth from your own lips. Tell me, what is the memory you hold most dear today?