Hope

Looking up from the cold depths of a dark wood, a traveler glimpses the faint glow of sunlight glancing across the treetops. None of that warm, golden light filters down to where he sits, caked in mud from the trail. The way he has traveled is... irrevocable. When he set out, he had volition. Choice. But looking back, it seems that his fate was determined by a stranger—a man he doesn't recognize in his own reflection. Agency has been exchanged for time, and time is irreversible. Regret.

And yet. Those light-tipped trees, those gleaming leaves atop masts of darkness. It requires no great effort to imagine the distant sun which illuminates them. And if the Light shines still, then the darkness has not yet overcome it. Hope.