An empty room.
The light from the window glides across the floor, brushing against the edge of the carpet, a frozen cup of cold coffee, the cord running from the controller to the console. Everything is still. Everything is like the aftermath of an exhalation. The silence doesn't oppress - it accepts. As if the room itself had exhaled along with him.
On the old TV screen - a black background and white letters, slightly trembling, as if written by hand rather than by a machine:
"Return?"
Two options. "Yes" and "No."
The cursor pauses. It trembles slightly, as if hesitating. As if someone - somewhere - is still thinking. Still weighing. But no. This isn't doubt. This is farewell.
The cursor moves smoothly. Stops on "No."
Pause. The silence deepens. Almost sacred.
And - a choice.
Press.
The screen reads:
"Bon voyage."
The words don't disappear - they simply fade. Like a voice fading into the distance. Then the screen slowly fades. No clicking, no flickering. Just - it darkens. Like evening. Like a curtain.
The console is still on, but no longer makes noise. The controller lies on its side, like a forgotten toy. The room remains - but he's no longer there.
He's gone.
Not vanished. Not lost. Gone. To a place where there's no return. To a place where everything begins anew.
And the room knows it. It doesn't wait. It doesn't call. It simply remains.
Empty. Quiet. Real.