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He could feel it, creeping up on him, much like he thought age crept up on other people. Maybe it was age, as much as it was also the injury. Maybe if he'd been of sound body he could have kept up with it until his dying day, or maybe he would have begun to decay over time anyway. There was no way to know, so there was no reason to wonder. (Still sometimes he did.)
Regardless of the reason, or if there was anything he could have done to prevent it, the inevitable end was steadily approaching. It stalked him like a shadow; it drew closer as the light that cast it rose further up into the sky. He didn't have to look or to count the ever-shortening minutes to know that midday was nearly upon him. He could feel it in every breath, in every heartbeat, even when he wasn't using his powers. No, especially when he wasn't using his powers. It was an inescapable reminder that soon he would be trapped.
He'd come to terms with his body long ago. His gangly, thin limbs and angular face weren't a problem. His sunken eyes and limp hair didn't bother him. He'd never cared much for looks-- only for what they meant. What they meant, unfortunately, was weakness.
A weak hero was no hero. If you couldn't save people or capture villains or do something useful, then what was the point of trying to be a hero at all? He knew this, and had come to terms with it as long ago as he had his body, and he thought he could accept it when the time came, bow gracefully out and accept that he just wouldn't be able to do the things he'd always done before. He was still, if nothing else, an image-- a symbol of peace. That would have to be enough.
It had been months since he'd been involved in any real, official hero work. He'd stepped down, figuring it wouldn't do for him to lose power in the middle of an important fight. Now the most he ever did was catch purse-snatchers, and even that was getting to be a bit much for him. He realized he was at his end in the middle of a short chase, when all his energy left him; he stumbled as if he'd tripped over the sidewalk tiles, but he caught up to the man after a moment anyway. It was nothing special; just about anyone could have. He consoled himself with that. If he hadn't been there, someone else still could have done something. If he couldn't be there tomorrow, someone else would, probably.
He went home and looked at himself in the mirror. That filled-out frame was still so familiar, even though he saw it less and less. Still, when he changed back to his more unassuming form, he didn't miss the old one. He didn't feel any of that disphoria he kept dreading. Would it eventually rear its ugly head? At least it hadn't yet.
Despite it all, he didn't entirely hate the idea of retiring. He'd been a hero most of his life, but he hadn't been much other than that. If he wasn't a hero, he would have to be something else, and the idea was, honestly, a little exciting. There was so much else out there, after all; so many other things he could build an identity out of, and so many little pieces of him hiding away because he'd never had a use for them before. A hero wasn't all he was, he told himself. He was a human too.
And the world would be fine without him watching over it. Midoriya had done a wonderful job so far, and he had faith that he would continue. His protege was beloved by his people, respected and respectful and more than capable of handling everything that he had handled once before. He could leave the world in the young man's hands without worry for its safety. He could, and he would.
He spent another few months making appearances, doing interviews and giving inspirational speeches. It seemed people still wanted to hear from him, though he'd done nothing of any real merit any time recently. He was careful, though, to keep them short, to not expose his weakness. Some still looked to him as a role model, his image a sense of security, and if he could do nothing else then at very least he could let them have that, for the time.
But the shadow still stalked him relentlessly, closer and closer the brighter Midoriya shined. It was quiet, it was calm; just the ticking of a clock on a summer afternoon. In a warm twilit moment, he wondered if he might be stronger still if he hadn't shared his power. But it was pointless to wonder; he had given it away and he didn't regret it, not in the slightest. It wasn't a power meant for hoarding until it flickered out, but one for passing while it still burned bright. He couldn't shy from the light it cast when passing it had been the best decision of his lifetime. He didn't regret it, not in the slightest, and he didn't shy from it.
His final moment came on a bright, clear day. There was no evidence, but he could feel it as sure as the beating of his heart. He took a deep breath, and let it out, and tried to think of letting go as a good and natural thing. You breathe in, and you must breathe out. Only then can you take another breath.
He found himself alone, high on a tall rooftop, the city far and wide beneath him and shining in the midday sun. The wind ran through his hair. He spread his arms, his fingers, and felt it flow between them. At the edge of the roof, he took form, and turned his face up to the sun. It shined on him, so warm and bright, so good. Straight overhead, it cast his shadow small and close beneath him.
Below, the city carried on its busy little life, safe and happy. For a moment he could almost forget that things had changed. For a moment, he was All Might, standing guard up on high, keeping watch over the city he loved and which loved him.
It was a long, bright moment, with the sun shining down on him. He took a deep breath and held it close and dear as he watched over his city and prayed that time stand still, if just for him. And yes, for that long, bright moment he could see everything so clear.
Then he let it go, and took a new breath. The world did not fall apart around him; the sun shined no less bright, no less beautiful. And he was no less him.
The sun shined bright. It would be okay.