[ WP ] The last words of anyone as they die are prophetic , and always come true : tell the story of a professional Prophecy Detective .

The most revered people in the land. Not the rulers. Not the young. Not the religious. No, the dying. 
 
 Sometime in the distant past, the government had mandated that all who were on the verge of dying be corralled into special facilities. Golden Gardens, they were called. For the sake of easing them into the next life, or so they said. The establishment of this practice had created an aura around the dying. A mystique. Year after year, the culture progressed to the point where people weren ’ t afraid of death. No, the realization that life was ending ushered in a quiet to most. People were ready to move on. They were ready to die. 
 
 The Golden Gardens were oft visited and advertised. They were beautiful. Who wouldn ’ t want to spend their last days in the best representation of heaven human minds could create? Transferring the dying to the Gardens was an event. Not some somber affair where people wept and held on. It was a celebration. 
 
 A celebration. 
 
 It was a farce. A spectacle all done to make sure that people kept sending their dying to the Gardens, so they could all spent their final moments in a controlled environment. If they only knew. 
 
 It took a while for the first person to realize what the dying represented. The future. People had noticed that some of the dying would utter things that were completely out of place right before their final breath, but most chalked that up to senility or the inability to cope with passing. But one man heard someone ’ s final words and realized what it meant. A prophecy. 
 
 He was the first of the Readers. He was the one that setup the foundation that was to become the Golden Gardens. He became the voice of the governing bodies. All because he was able to read the prophecy that he heard. Each time he heard a prophecy, he grew stronger. His sphere of influence soon became inescapable. 
 
 He was able to locate others who could read through some of the prophecies. He kept them on as retainers, but he was the sole reader for as long as he lived, not trusting what others might do with the information. He had amassed such wealth, such wisdom, such power…he was loathe to share that. 
 
 When he felt that he was about to die, he gathered the readers. At this point, they represented the top governing officials of the land. He told them everything. He shared with them where he stored all the prophecies. He told them of how things were to proceed in order to maintain the current landscape. And then he died. Silently. 
 
 The transition went about as smoothly as it could. Years and years, decades and decades, until a century passed. The order of things hadn ’ t changed, only magnified. No one knew of the prophecies save for the readers. 
 
 One day, though, there was a prophecy that none could read. 
 
 They debated. Gibberish? Perhaps this dying person really was just mad after all? 
 
 *Here comes one* 
 *Your brother* 
 *Only more* 
 *Not to hear but to speak* 
 
 They all discussed it, but none of them could figure it out. No one but the one for which the prophecy was intended. 
 
 He kept quiet about that prophecy. He knew what it meant. To prove it, on his next round, he went to his dying charge and whispered something. 
 
 The dying soul looked at him after those words, eyes full of fear, uttering a prophecy as he died. Uttering the same exact words just whispered in his ear. 
 
 The Speaker had arrived. 

