The sky looked more cloudy that day, as if even it couldn't make up its mind. The kind of gray that doesn't threaten rain—just floats there, heavy and undecided.
Fitting, I thought. It was the day I finally made the most important decision of my life.
The attic was as empty as I expected. Everyone else was downstairs, buzzing around in half-zipped uniforms, tossing hats, laughing at jokes that wouldn't be funny tomorrow. Graduation day.
A breeze slipped in through the broken vent. It carried the sharp scent of sakura blossoms from the school yard—bitter, not sweet. My graduation cap rested lightly in my hand. Strangely light. Maybe because the weight in my chest had finally gone quiet.
I walked to the edge.
The metal railing was cold and rusted, humming faintly as the wind passed through. I placed one hand on it and looked down.
From up here, the world looked... small. Insignificant. Unworthy. Like something made of cardboard. The front gate, the vending machines, even the cherry trees—they all looked like props in a school play I never auditioned for.
One step. That's all it would take.
The noise in my head had been louder than ever these past few weeks—fragments of guilt, anger, pointless memories screaming over each other like classmates in a group project gone wrong. But now, at the edge, there was only silence.
A clean, welcome silence.
I closed my eyes and let myself sink into it.
The memories came—not like a flood, but like dripping water. Slow. I didn't fight them.
The fake apologies.
The locker full of rotten food.
The teacher who said, "Just try to get along."
The time someone replaced my sports shoes with girls' sandals and laughed as I limped through P.E.
The silence of my so-called friends.
And under it all—the weight of something far worse. Something I could never undo.
They always said time heals. But some wounds just rot in silence.
None of it helped me atone. None of it brought peace. It was just noise on top of guilt.
I took a deep breath and whispered a name. Softly. Like a prayer. Or a curse.
Then my phone buzzed.
For a moment, I wondered if it was a final sign. A last word from the universe. A goodbye from no one.
I checked the screen.
Yamamoto-san (Landlord):
Tsukihara-kun, your rent is two months overdue. I don't care about your circumstances. Either pay or get out.
"Typical Yamamoto-san," I muttered with a smirk.
Even on the day I decided to die, he found a way to nag me.
I opened my bank app: 80,000 yen left.
Just enough. I transferred 78,000 to him and shot back a single-word reply: Paid.
2,000 yen remaining. More than enough for a soon-to-be dead kid.
I looked down again.
Four stories high. It looked taller than it should have.
Quick. Painless.
I had read somewhere that it's almost instant, if the head hits first.
I was ready.
Almost.
But then—
There it was again. The hesitation. That small voice that always whispered at the edge of sleep.
What if it hurts?
What if it doesn't end?
What if it does, but nothing changes?
I hated that voice.
Still, my fingers trembled.
Not because I didn't want to die.
But because I had no idea what dying actually meant. Oblivion was fine. But not knowing? That was worse.
The breeze picked up. A few petals floated past me, dancing off the roof's edge like they didn't care where they landed.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small crescent moon pendant.
Cheap. Almost rusting.
But beautiful.
She gave it to me once.
I couldn't even remember what she said when she did. But I never stopped carrying it.
I brought it to my lips.
"Soon," I whispered. "I'll be there soon."
Buzz. Another notification.
Seriously?
I checked my phone again.
Yamamoto-san: 👍
A single thumbs up.
I laughed. Not because it was funny. But because this world really had no timing.
I swiped the notification away, but accidentally opened the browser.
A news feed page loaded.
I was about to close it when a line caught my eye:
[Lucent Project– VOLUNTEERS NEEDED]
Transfer your years. Save a life.
"Lucent Project?" I muttered aloud.
I clicked the link.
The site was weird. Lucentproject.org. The layout looked like it had been designed by a teenage AI intern—pink and blue gradients, floating heart icons, terrible font choices.
But the words?
They burned.
"In a historic breakthrough, the Lucent Project has developed technology capable of measuring and transferring a human's lifespan—called a 'Life Beat.'"
I kept scrolling.
"Using proprietary biotech, we can detect and quantify remaining life years, vitality, and cellular health."
"Donors who wish to offer their remaining time to terminal patients may do so through a dual-consent process."
I stopped breathing.
This wasn't a joke.
"Fast. Painless. Legal. Ethical. Beautiful."
I scrolled further.
"For those who feel they've lived enough... for those who want their remaining time to matter..."
My hand trembled.
This... this was it.
This was what I had been searching for. Some way to make all this waste mean something. I didn't want redemption. Or pity. I just wanted to not die useless.
I always hated the thought that I was throwing away something others would kill to have.
But this—this was perfect.
Not a death.
A donation.
I hit the "Apply" button.
The form asked for the usual things. Name. Age. Medical history.
Emergency contact—left it blank.
And at the end:
Why do you want to volunteer for the Lucant project?
I paused.
Then typed:
"So it doesn't go to waste."
I hit submit.
The screen flashed: "Thank you. A representative will be in touch soon."
I let the phone slide from my fingers.
It thudded softly against the rooftop.
For the first time in months, I wasn't thinking about dying.
I was thinking about...
What happens next?
I leaned back against the concrete wall, eyes half closed.
The wind was still cold. But it felt different. Like it was moving around me, not through me.
I breathed in.
The sakura smelled less bitter this time.