Roland Deschain did not stop when the world ended; he simply adjusted his pace.
"Go then," Roland whispered, though whether he spoke to Jake, the Tower, or himself, he did not know. "There are other worlds than these." The Dark Tower
Roland didn't turn. He knew the voice of the boy, Jake, though the boy had been dead and reborn more times than Roland had fingers. Jake sat on a stump of petrified wood, tossing a gold coin that vanished every time it hit his palm. Roland Deschain did not stop when the world
Roland stood, his ancient revolvers heavy against his hips. The sandalwood grips felt warm, almost humming. He looked toward the horizon, where the Dark Tower stood—a needle of impossible black stone stitching the sky to the earth. He knew the voice of the boy, Jake,
Roland began to walk. His boots clicked against the teeth. He didn't think about the countless miles behind him or the ghosts that trailed in his wake like smoke. He thought only of the weight of the horn in his bag—the Horn of Eld, which he had finally remembered to pick up at the hill of Jericho Hill.
"If the bell rings three times, the doors stay shut forever," Jake whispered. "The cycle doesn't reset. We just... stay in the dark."
He stepped inside, and for the first time in a thousand years, the gunslinger felt the wind change direction.