Raindrops glided down the windows of a late-night intercity bus, cold to the touch, as the bus made a rough turn through the streets.
Among the many passengers travelling at 9 p.m., there were usually two main groups at such late hours—one comprised those commuting back home after a hard day's labour, and the other consisted of kids savouring their youth, still unaware of the work and depression that come with being corporate slaves.
Michael was part of both worlds, yet at the same time, he never truly felt he belonged to either.
A young bird was asked to learn flight for a purpose, and so never understood its freedom or the joy that came with it.
Headphones covered his ears from peace and silence; no music played. Only the occasional honks and the hum of the engine, blending with the rhythm of the rain, filled the quiet around him.
Outside, the city blurred by in streaks of grey and yellow. Umbrellas tilted under the gleam of streetlights. Puddles rippled beneath passing tyres.
Michael's breath fogged the window, fading as soon as it formed. He didn't move. Didn't think. Just drifted somewhere between waking and sleep.
His fingers twitched. A memory surfaced—blurs of running water, laughter, sunlight spilling across faces he couldn't name.
His brow tensed. He murmured under his breath, "Da…"
The bus hit a bump.
Thwack.
His head struck the glass, the sound dull against the downpour outside.
He stirred, rubbing the spot on his left forehead.
"Ugh… where am I?" Michael felt dazed, as if waking from a long, deep slumber. He glanced around. Rows of tired faces. Strangers.
Somewhere within him, a sudden fear welled up. He shot up from his seat, shouting,
"Where is Father? Mother? My siblings?!"
The shout was loud enough for all the passengers to hear, cutting sharply through the previously calm atmosphere.
Across a few rows, Michael noticed a woman flinch at his sudden outburst. She clutched her belongings and pulled her son close. Her wide, wary eyes lingered on him before turning away. The boy peeked from behind her arm, curious yet afraid.
Others wore the same wary expressions across their faces.
'...!'
Realisation struck as Michael froze.
"I'm sor—"
He quickly sat down, embarrassed that he couldn't even finish his apology, dragging a hand across his face.
"Crap… what was that… That dream…" he thought, chest tightening. "What even was that? The river… their faces…"
His reflection stared back at him in the window—pale, tired, fractured by raindrops.
He pressed his palm to his forehead and exhaled.
Thankfully, the awkward atmosphere didn't last long. Most local New Yorkers were already familiar with the antics of social media pranksters and streamers.
Michael, for once, felt unexpectedly grateful to said troublesome extroverts.
After a moment, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of glasses. The metal was cold against his fingers. When he slid them on, the world sharpened back into focus.
He took out his phone and pressed the power button. The screen flickered to life, its pale light washing across his face.
A notification blinked.
Upon unlocking the phone, another message popped up.
[MOM]
Michael's gaze lingered for a while. With an expressionless face, he tapped the notification, opening a chat log.
—> [MOM]: Congratulations, Michael (heart:: emoji)
—> [MOM]: I just got the call! First place! You made it to nationals, right? I told everyone at work already!
—> [MOM]: Let's win that too. You're not stopping here, are you? This is just the start, honey. We'll talk about your schedule tonight.
Another message followed.
—> [DAD]: Hey, your mom said something about a trophy? What's this for again?
Michael's thumb hovered above the screen.
—> [MOM]: Don't mind your father. He never keeps up with anything. Anyway, I already registered you for the next round. You'll thank me later. Also, remind me to download the certificate, I need it—let's take a picture together.
Without replying, Michael exhaled through his nose, then continued to open his music app.
[Now Playing]
Eve (Slowed + Reverb) — garden and truth (4:12)
▶︎||────────────────────────────⬤────────── 2:46
The heavy, distorted echoes filled his ears. Each beat dulled the noise in his head, steadying his breath. The tension in his chest eased into the rhythm.
Michael's thoughts still lingered on the strange dream—thoughts that stayed longer than they should have. He wasn't the type to overthink such things, yet this one felt different. The experiences were too vivid, too real. The faces, the water, the laughter—it all clung to him like a memory rather than a fleeting dream.
Memories come from what was lived. They are precise, shaped by what the senses once caught. Dreams are artificial—creations of memory, fragile and shifting, breaking apart the moment we wake.
Michael let out a self-deprecating laugh as he muttered, "As absurd as it sounds, it feels like I remembered a past life."
The words were nothing more than a fleeting thought. He shook his head, almost amused by his own imagination.
Not wanting to dwell on it any longer, he leaned back and let the music drown out the world. His eyes focused on the streets outside, wondering when the skies would clear, when the rain would finally stop.
From the corner of his eye, he caught the reflection of a man in a black suit. His hair was neatly combed, his presence refined enough to make one question whether he was a celebrity.
Was he always there?
Michael didn't linger on the man.
He continued to enjoy the pleasant music for another few minutes, until—
BANG!
Michael's pupils dilated as the sound tore through the air, making him jolt like a startled cat. Even with his headphones on, he could tell it was nearly ear-deafening.
Around him, people were standing, panic written across their faces, eyes wide with terror.
Slowly, Michael rose from his seat, confusion mixing with dread. But midway through, a thought crossed his mind—something about that sound felt familiar.
He unknowingly found himself wishing he was wrong.
'...?!'
Michael's gaze followed the crowd's—then he froze. Seconds passed, but for him, they stretched into minutes. His mind struggled to process what he was seeing, uncertain whether he was awake or trapped in another dream.
A woman's limp hand swayed, her half-body slumped over the armrest.
What's happening? This is a prank, right?
Michael's eyes blinked rapidly as his body began to tremble.
A man stood in front of the woman's body, blood splattered across his white shirt and black tie. His face was calm—too calm. A metallic glint caught the light in his hand.
A gun… that has to be fake, right?
Michael shifted his gaze toward the front of the bus, realising the driver hadn't stopped. The vehicle kept rolling forward as if nothing had happened.
I get it now. The bus driver must be in on it. This is just a prank.
Michael, thinking he had caught on, felt himself relax slightly. But—
He froze.
A gaping, bloody hole was visible through the woman's skull, erasing any trace of doubt. The sight anchored him in a horrifying certainty—this was real.
His pulse spiked. Instinct took over. Michael fumbled for his phone, his trembling fingers unlocking it with desperate precision, as if every second delayed might cost him his life. He dialled 911.
But the call didn't go through. The screen stared back at him—No Signal.
Wtf.
As Michael turned his head back up, he heard a loud thud.
A passenger lay on the ground. At first, Michael thought another had been shot, but he quickly realised he was mistaken—A man was unconscious on the floor, eyes still open.
Behind the killer, without a sound, another passenger sprang at him, fist raised for a heavy blow. Somehow, the killer slipped aside as if he had eyes in the back of his head.
"Thank you," the killer muttered, almost bored.
"I am going to knock you out, you bastard!" the man shouted, fury cracking through his voice as he lunged again, driving a straight punch right at the killer's jaw, but—
His body jolted mid swing. Then his limbs loosened, his stance collapsed, and he dropped to the floor in the same still, unnatural state similar to the other.
The killer lingered over the man before his head swiftly turned toward Michael. Their eyes met.
"Good. You're up next," he said calmly. "Let's make this quick. I still have others to deal with."
Michael looked around—every passenger was pressed against the windows, silent, wide-eyed, watching him with pity.
He forced a broken smile, his voice trembling as he stuttered, "Listen… I already called the cops. They're on their way. It's no use killing me—it's better to run while you still can!"
Michael tried to reason with the killer, hoping to buy time—hoping negotiation might mean survival.
The man chuckled under his breath. "Your police won't even be able to reach this space."
Michael's pulse raced. His throat tightened. Sweat slid down his temple.
The man raised the gun slightly, aiming it toward Michael's forehead. The safety clicked off—a hollow sound that seemed to echo louder than the rain itself.
Michael swallowed hard. "What do you want? Why are you doing this? Tell me—"
The question never finished before a deafening sound erupted.
With sudden reflexes, Michael twisted his torso to the side with every ounce of strength he had. The bullet grazed his cheek, searing as it passed.
I dodged it.
He blinked in disbelief—only to find himself somehow back in the same position as before the shot. The burning graze on his cheek was gone, his body unscathed, as if the moment itself had been erased.
Shatter.
The glass behind Michael exploded as the bullet tore through his skull.
The killer wore a faint smile. "It's your sin to bear," he murmured, his voice fading.
His body slumped sideways against the window, blood streaking down the glass, mingling with the rain outside.
Beyond the bus, the city moved on. Headlights flashed, puddles rippled, people hurried beneath umbrellas—
As if nothing had happened. As if everything inside that bus was sealed away from the world.
Sound dissolved. Light bled out.
All that remained was the quiet pull of darkness swallowing everything whole.
'…?'
I… I'm dead?
Confused, Michael turned toward the killer, whose gaze seemed to pierce straight through his soul—as if he were the only one who could truly see him.
Eventually, Michael looked down at his hands—and froze. They were faint, translucent, shimmering like an illusion.
Michael's breath paused. His hands trembled as he lifted them closer—only for his fingers to blur, faint and see-through.
"No… no, that's not—" His voice cracked, panic clawing at his throat. "That's not possible."
He waved his hand desperately, trying to touch the seat beside him, but it passed straight through. The air felt thick, unreal, as if the world lost rationality.
His chest tightened. "What the hell… what is this?"
The realisation hit him like ice spreading through his veins.
"I'm a ghost?" he whispered, the words fragile, disbelieving. He let out a shaky laugh that broke halfway through. "No… ghosts don't exist. They don't."
Suddenly, a force tugged at him—a strange pull that lifted him from the ground. His body phased through the bus, and in the next instant, he was soaring upward into the night sky at unimaginable speed, spinning helplessly as the city lights blurred beneath him.
He shot past the clouds, the air thinning, his speed gradually slowing until he came to a halt.
As he opened his eyes, a sharp pain erupted through his head. It felt as though his entire existence was being torn apart—and it was.
From his forehead downward, his body began to split into two.
Michael's mouth opened, but no sound came at first—only air, trembling, breaking apart like static. Then the scream tore free, raw and hollow, echoing through the emptiness above the clouds.
It wasn't a single voice anymore. It fractured as his throat tore in two; the screams doubled—one cry becoming two, both clawing at the night. The sound bent, distorted, as though the sky itself recoiled.
Michael's vision blurred. His split heads stared back at him—except one was a feminine reflection of himself suspended in the sky, one side twisted in agony, the other frozen in terror.
Soon, his sight dissolved into an endless void.
But through the darkness, a final voice reached him—angelic and soft, its tone washing away the pain and chaos that had torn him apart.
"It is also our sins to bear."