Wade didn't die with glory.
He didn't die with a sword in his hand or a crowd crying his name. He wasn't a soldier, a genius, a monster, or a martyr. He didn't die for a country or a cause.
He died on the road, blood pooling around him, in front of a 24-hour laundromat, wearing threadbare sneakers and a secondhand coat with one working zipper.
He died with people around him. With the kids face looking scared, grateful, alive. But not before he moved.
.
.
.
The morning had started like any other. Gray, damp, a flavorless sky hanging low over a city that never quite woke up. The streets hissed with the hiss of half frozen slush under worn tires. The air tasted like rusted iron and exhaust fumes. Breath came out in little clouds. His hands stayed deep in his pockets, fingers stiff, knuckles raw.
Wade walked with the practiced shuffle of someone who didn't want to draw attention.
The world didn't owe him anything—and had never really offered much anyway. He didn't complain. That would have implied someone was listening. It was better to just exist. Drift. Be functional. Do enough to pass through the cracks without snagging.
No one noticed him.
Which is why, when the moment came, no one else reacted in time.
It happened at the crosswalk on 4th and Lambert, right outside the elementary school.
A mother shouted. A small boy—tiny jacket, red mittens—was already halfway into the street, eyes chasing a spinning coin that had fallen from his pocket. He didn't see the light turn green. Didn't hear the truck rumbling toward him, picking up speed as it passed the intersection.
No one moved.
Not the mother, frozen in that perfect second of horror.
Not the other pedestrians, blinking in slow motion shock.
Not the driver—too late to brake, too fast to care.
He could only press his horn.
Only Wade moved.
It wasn't courage.
It wasn't instinct.
It was simple logic.
He saw something about to be broken. He saw no one else reaching for it.
So he did.
He didn't yell. Didn't think. Just ran.
Feet pounding through slush, lungs burning in cold air. He crossed the sidewalk in a flash, dropped his shoulder, and threw himself into the kid.
The child hit the concrete curb with a cry—but safely. Out of reach. Alive.
Wade kept moving.
His head turned. The truck's grille was a silver wall filling the world.
There was no time to flinch.
The sound was the worst part.
Not the impact, though his bones shattered like glass rods. Not the metal groan of the bumper crumpling on contact. It was the absence—the instant after, when the world went mute.
Then came the cold.
Not the cold of snow.
The cold that lives inside you when your body gives up.
The cold that fills your lungs when they're too crushed to scream.
He tasted iron. Something warm flooded his throat, then leaked out of his mouth in a thin, bubbling trail. His vision snapped in and out—sky, asphalt, white, black. He felt like he was flipping over and over, though his body had already stopped.
People screamed.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Someone shouted, "Stay with me!" and hands clutched at his broken frame.
But Wade was already letting go.
He caught a small glimpse of the boy, staring at him with tears in his eyes, he looked scared, grateful, but most importantly, alive.
And then—quiet.
A different kind.
Not the absence of sound.
But a kind of peace.
The pain didn't fade. It just ceased to matter. Like it belonged to someone else. He felt light, weightless, like he was sinking through a thick sea of nothing.
Time unraveled.
He thought of the boy.
Red mittens.
Spinning coin.
Tears.
He would live. And that was enough.
No one would know Wade's name. The driver wouldn't remember his face. The mother wouldn't recognize him.
But the kid would be safe.
And for the first time in his life—
Wade had done something that mattered.
That thought settled in his chest like warmth in winter.
He felt it rising. That strange heat. That stillness. The sensation of… floating?
Was this death?
No. Not yet.
There was something else.
Sound.
Not mechanical. Not chaotic.
A rhythmic thump. Like a heartbeat. Slow. Deep. Alive.
Then—light.
Not hospital white. Not the cold glare of fluorescents. This light was gold, soft, flickering—like the kind you'd find near a fire in a hearth.
There were voices.
Blurry. Garbled. But real.
A man's voice, rough and low, like gravel worn smooth by rivers.
A woman's laugh, bright and silver, wrapped in warmth.
And two younger tones—one cocky and loud, the other playful and lilting.
Then hands.
Wade felt hands. Holding him. Cradling him. Not latex or gloves—skin. Warm, living skin.
He couldn't open his eyes, but he felt the motion. Rocking. Swaying. A hand brushed his head, combed through his hair. Lips pressed to his forehead.
A whisper followed—words he couldn't understand, but he felt them anyway.
Love didn't need translation.
Was this… some kind of dream?
Was this the part where the brain died, and everything turned into light?
Or—
Was this something else?
The weight shifted. His cheek pressed against a firm chest, and he felt a heartbeat strong enough to echo in his bones.
He wasn't lying on cold pavement anymore.
He was being held.
Not medically. Not professionally. Lovingly.
The man's voice came again. Laughing now. Deep, proud, happy.
Another voice joined—a woman, her tone lilting, warm, playful. She said something, and then someone else giggled. A girl. Maybe older than him. Then another—a boy, louder, full of energy.
Wade didn't understand the words.
But he understood this:
He was safe.
He was wanted.
The warmth wasn't going away.
The pain didn't return.
The cold was gone, and in its place was something he hadn't felt even once in seventeen years.
Home.
The woman's fingers traced gentle circles on his back, and someone—maybe the girl—wrapped something soft around him. A blanket? A shawl? It smelled of lavender and woodsmoke. The man spoke again, firmer this time, and laughter erupted in response.
Wade didn't know the language.
But his soul understood every word.