The age-old question has plagued the tribes of men since the dawn of time. Since the first fire was coaxed from stone and the first shadow learned to move without owner. What endures, and what is merely passing?

I stand once again at the threshold of a another new year, watching mortals perform their small rituals of hope. They raise glasses, kiss strangers, make promises they will forget before the snow melts. They count time as if it were a thing that belongs to them. For me, it is only weather.

I am the undying vampire, older than men, older than the trees, younger only than the bare rocks of the mountains. I have watched those rocks split and tumble, have seen forests rise where seas once slept. I feed on the blood of the innocent and renew myself eternally, while generations flare and fade like sparks.

In medieval Hungary I was Szmilágyi the Impaler, feared in whispers and prayers. In Imperial China I reigned for a century as Sma Li the Terrible, my name carved into history by trembling hands. In caveman days I hunted my human prey, saddled upon a sabre-toothed Smilodon, the stars colder then, the nights longer.

Each new year arrives the same way - loud, hopeful, fragile. Another turning of a wheel that will never carry me closer to an end. I watch the fireworks bloom and die, counting neither seconds nor years, only faces. They will all be gone soon enough.

I am the undying nightmare of humankind. The clocks move. The calendars change.
I do not.