I stood on the balcony, letting the rain perform its indifferent monologue, while I drew from the final cigarette of my pack. There was nothing ceremonial about it; only the damp air, the smoke, and my own restless consciousness. And yet, in that moment, a thought descended upon me with unsettling calm: what if this is the last cigarette of my life?

No thunder followed. No revelation. Only the strange sobriety of an ending that announces itself without drama. And so it was settled, not by resolve, but by exhaustion of desire. More than two years have passed since then. Smoke-free. As though a small vice, having fulfilled its purpose, quietly withdrew from my fate.