The air hung thick with the scent of brimstone and burned ambition as the demons gathered in their infernal chamber. Their laughter echoed through the abyss, each savoring tales of the latest torments they inflicted upon the humans above.
“I whispered self-doubt into the ears of an artist,” one said, flicking his forked tongue. “He’ll never finish his masterpiece now.”
“I planted greed in the heart of a merchant,” cackled another. “He’ll chase wealth forever and never feel rich.”
One by one, they shared their tricks, reveling in the misery they had sown. Sloth, envy, pride, and despair—all had been wielded with precision. But as their celebration peaked, silence enveloped the chamber as the eldest among them, a shadowy figure with eyes like dying embers, stepped forward.
“Fools,” he rasped, his voice resembling the last crackle of a dying fire. “You toy with human flaws, but you’re thinking too small.”
The younger demons recoiled in confusion. What could be greater than their carefully crafted vices? The old demon smirked and raised his clawed hand. “Give them the illusion of time.”
Murmurs rippled through the chamber. The illusion of time?
The elder continued. “Let them believe there is always tomorrow. Make them think there will always be another chance, another day to chase their dreams, mend broken bonds, or change their lives.” His voice dropped to a whisper, yet it resonated in their ears. “Let them plan but never act. Let them dream but never do. Let them waste their lives waiting for the perfect moment that never arrives. Let them awaken to a thousand mornings that never come.”
He leaned closer, his shadow stretching long in the dim light. “And then,” he murmured, his voice heavy with something ancient and wise, “whisper to them an even greater lie—convince them that there is another life, that they will live again in this world, that their soul will have another chance to right the wrongs committed. Tell them they will live again and that then, they may live their lives well; perhaps then, they can finally become who they were too afraid to be.”
His lips curled into an expression that was neither a smile nor a sneer but something far more chilling. “Make them believe that time is an ocean, endless and forgiving, that they can squander this life because another will be waiting, ready to unfold like an untouched book. Let them think that consequences are illusions and that regret can be postponed indefinitely. Let them waste not just today but eternity, shackled by the belief that there will always be more.”
He stood tall, the weight of his words sinking into the silence that followed. “And when the final hour comes, when they reach for that second life they were promised, let them find only the truth—there was never another, only this one, slipping like sand through their open fingers.”
The demons trembled with excitement, their wicked minds already weaving this newfound torment into the fabric of the human world. Soon, the effect spread like a shadow over humanity. People awakened each day, telling themselves they had time. Time to start the novel, to take the trip, to confess their love, to mend their relationships, to chase their purpose.
And so, they waited. And waited. Days turned to weeks, weeks to years, and dreams withered in the dust of hesitation. The humans, unaware, continued to promise themselves “someday.” The demons watched, grinning from the depths, as lives faded into the void—not with fire, not with fury, but with quiet, unfulfilled potential. Not with great tragedies, but with small, daily postponements. Not with a single catastrophic mistake, but with the slow erosion of dreams never pursued.
And when the final hour came—when the humans reached for that second life they had been promised—they found only silence. There was no second chance, no untouched page waiting to be written. There was only this life, now spent, its moments scattered like ash on the winds of hesitation.
And so, the world was not lost to darkness or fire. It was lost to waiting—for a thousand mornings that never came.
