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There are people who still believe that online friendships aren’t “real.”

I used to argue with them.

Now I don’t have the energy.

Because real people leave real holes behind.

I met Dascal in our Free Company, one of those happy accidents that Final Fantasy XIV seems to create so effortlessly. We didn’t become instant best friends. It happened slowly. Quiet conversations in FC chat. Seeing him head out into the wilds with his gathering tools, content to spend hours beneath the trees, along riverbanks, or high in the mountains collecting whatever Eorzea had to offer.

He wasn’t the kind of player chasing the newest Extreme trial or rushing through daily content. He was older, happier taking life at his own pace. Gathering wasn’t just something he did, it was where he seemed most at peace. There was something reassuring about seeing his name online, knowing he was probably somewhere in the world, quietly exploring, harvesting, and enjoying the journey more than the destination.

Some friendships aren’t built through epic battles. They’re built through ordinary moments. A familiar greeting when you log in. A quiet conversation while everyone else is busy. The comfort of knowing someone is there.

Then cancer entered the story.

It felt unfair in the way only reality can be. There wasn’t some villain to defeat. No healer limit break. No second phase where the music swells and everything turns around. Just hospital visits, uncertainty, hope, setbacks, and eventually… silence.

When Dascal passed away, Eorzea became different.

Every familiar place carried echoes. The forests he wandered. The gathering routes where he’d happily spend an evening. Seeing a botanist or miner out in the world still makes me think of him. Every login reminded me that someone who had once been only a whisper away in chat would never answer again.

And yet, the Free Company remained.

It may sound strange to someone who has never found a home in an online world, but that Free Company became more than a collection of players. It became a place where part of Dascal still existed.

Walking into the FC house wasn’t just entering a building. It was stepping back into memories. I could almost picture him there, heading out on another gathering trip or quietly chatting with everyone while the evening passed by. It hurt, but it was a comforting kind of hurt. As long as I could return there, it felt like a small piece of him had never really left.

It became my way of visiting an old friend.

Then one day, that was taken away too.

Without warning, every member of the Free Company was removed.

Just like that, the home we’d shared no longer existed for any of us.

I know that, logically, a Free Company isn’t a friendship. It isn’t the memories we made or the bond we shared. Those things can never be deleted by a button press.

But grief has never listened to logic.

Grief attaches itself to places.

To songs.

To screenshots.

To familiar names in a chat log.

To little digital spaces that become sacred because someone you loved once stood there.

Losing Dascal was one kind of pain.

Losing the place that still made me feel close to him became another.

It felt like mourning twice.

People often say, “It’s just a game.”

Maybe the game is.

But the people never were.

Games are where people meet. They’re where strangers become friends, and friends become family. They’re where people celebrate birthdays, weddings, achievements, and sometimes simply survive difficult years together because someone is always there to listen.

The world may be virtual, but the memories are painfully real.

I still find myself wandering through the forests, fields, and mountains where gatherers spend their time. Sometimes I imagine Dascal still following familiar routes, stopping to harvest one more node before calling it a night. Sometimes I replay old conversations in my head because memory has become the only chat log left.

I don’t think grief ever truly ends.

It just changes shape.

Some days remembering hurts.

Other days remembering feels like a gift.

Most days, it’s both.

This experience taught me something I wish I had never needed to learn.

We never really know how deeply another player becomes woven into our lives until they’re gone.

Not offline.

Gone.

And maybe that’s why kindness matters so much in worlds like Eorzea.

The quiet player gathering resources simply because they enjoy it.

The familiar name that appears every evening when you log in.

The person who never asks for recognition but somehow becomes part of your daily life.

One day, those ordinary moments become someone’s most treasured memories.

I lost Dascal to cancer.

Then I lost the place where I still felt connected to him.

But I refuse to lose what he gave me.

His kindness.

His quiet presence.

His friendship.

The reminder that strangers can become family without ever living in the same country, speaking face to face, or meeting beyond a screen.

No Free Company can take that away.

No removal from a roster can erase years of friendship.

No empty member list can silence the echoes of someone who mattered.

Wherever your journey has taken you now, Dascal, I hope you’ve found the peaceful paths you always seemed to love.

Thank you for every conversation.

Thank you for your kindness.

Thank you for reminding me that not every hero in Eorzea carries a weapon. Some carry a pickaxe, following quiet trails through forests and mountains, gathering not for glory, but simply because they love the world around them. Those are the heroes who leave something far more lasting than any raid clear ever could.

I still carry those memories with me.

Perhaps that’s the closest thing we have to immortality.

To be remembered.

To leave a part of yourself in the hearts of those who continue walking after you’ve gone.

Until we meet again, my friend.

May you ever walk in the light.