Stasis — you never chose. That was your sin.

Stasis isn’t silence—it’s suspense. It’s the ache of almost, the ghost of a door left unopened. This song breathes like a held note, like lungs full of grief with no air left to scream. Here in Limbo, the punishment is absence. Not pain. Just the echo of what should have been.

Dante walks among the worthy forgotten—philosophers, artists, lovers of light who were born too soon, or believed too differently.

They speak in quiet sorrow, but behind their eyes, you can feel it: that unbearable closeness to Heaven.

Its warmth radiates through the veil—soft, golden, beckoning.

They can see it. Feel it. Almost taste it.

But it will never let them in.

And that, in the end, is worse than Hell.

You watched it unfold. Me. Her. Everything.

And did nothing.

Not out of cruelty, but cowardice.

You let time pass, convinced it would carry the responsibility for you.

But time is not merciful.

It’s a cage.

Stasis drifts through the fog of what you never said, never risked, never reached for.

And now all that remains is the hum of unspent magic, trapped in amber.

This is where the descent begins.

Not with fire—

but with a failure to move.