People resisted growing old not only because they feared the death awaiting them at the end of time, but also because they were unwilling to accept the decline of the body—the increasingly profound and powerful soul, tempered by time and experience, trapped within a frail and powerless vessel.
Some had fabricated legends of ascending to immortality after death and spread them as unquestionable truth. The beautiful lie was widely embraced as spiritual comfort; people believed that after death, they could cast aside all illness and pain and gain freedom for their souls.
Others believed in tales of rejuvenation, desperately seeking miraculous elixirs that could prolong life. They saw white hair and a youthful face as symbols of enlightenment, and went wild with joy over a few black strands unexpectedly sprouting amid their gray hair.
Adults longed for the life of children—a carefree time without the pressure of struggling to make a living, before they had witnessed the ugliness of the world. They treated it as a harbor for the soul, a safe zone where they could flee from reality.
But what if one truly turned back into a child? In truth, there was nothing joyful about it. Any phenomenon of reverse growth that defied natural law and common sense was enough to stir panic.
Not merely because one's temperament, intelligence, and memories deteriorated, leaving a childish soul housed in an ill-fitting, oversized shell; nor merely because unforeseen developments were beyond control, making cowards unwilling to take risks and cower in fear; but because—the end of this road was nothingness.
People came from nothingness, and now they would regress from adults into infants, then embryos, fertilized eggs, until nothing remained. Not even a grave to mark that they had once existed could be left behind.
They were erased, their very possibility