The city was quiet. Too quiet.
Midnight had stolen everything — the chatter, the traffic, the laughter that used to echo somewhere out there.
Now, only the low hum of faraway lights remained, and the wind brushing across the old bridge like a whisper that didn't know who it was meant for.
A young man stood at the edge, hands buried deep in his pockets, staring down at the black river sliding silently beneath him.
The surface caught the streetlight here and there — trembling, uncertain, just like his heartbeat.
The wind cut through his jacket, sharp and cold. He didn't move. Didn't even shiver.
He just kept looking, eyes dull and distant.
"It's strange," he muttered under his breath, the sound barely there. "How life just keeps going… even after you've already stopped living."
A dry, bitter laugh slipped out — the kind you don't plan, the kind that dies halfway out of your throat.
"People say it'll get better. That it's just a bad phase. But what do they know?"
He paused, voice trembling just a little.
"They've never woken up in the morning and felt nothing. They've never had to drag themselves through the day pretending everything's fine. Pretending to care. Pretending someone's waiting for them out there."
His breath came out as white mist. He watched it fade — brief, disappearing like every dream he ever dared to keep.
"I wanted simple things," he said quietly. "That's the funny part. I never wanted anything impossible."
He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he saw it — a small, ordinary life. The kind that hurts more to imagine when you've lost it.
"A job. Nothing fancy. Just something stable enough to buy a small place. Maybe even save for a house someday. I'd come home tired, sure, but… satisfied. Knowing the bills were paid, the fridge was full, and I could sleep without thinking about tomorrow."
He smiled faintly — or tried to.
"Then maybe I'd meet someone. A girl who laughs at dumb jokes. We'd argue over small things, make up the next day, and somehow it'd feel like the world made sense again."
He swallowed hard.
"I'd marry her. We'd have a kid. I'd watch them grow up — cry, laugh, fall, get back up. I'd grow old. My hair would turn gray, my back would start to ache, and one day… I'd lie next to her, in that same little house, talking about how fast it all went by. And then… I'd just close my eyes and go peacefully."
For a moment, nothing. Just wind and water.
"That was my dream," he whispered.
His fingers tightened on the railing, knuckles pale in the streetlight.
"But dreams are cruel, aren't they?"
He looked down at the river — dark, restless, endless. The moon's reflection rippled and broke apart under the current.
"I tried," he said. "God, I really did. I studied. I worked. I kept hoping it would turn around. But everything just kept falling apart."
His voice dropped lower, almost to a whisper.
"One rejection after another. Rent due. Empty inbox. Friends drifting away. I blinked one day, and everything was gone."
He smiled again — small, broken, hollow.
"No home. No family. No one left. Just… me."
He looked up at the sky. The stars were faint, like they didn't care enough to shine tonight.
"No one's waiting for me after I go home," he murmured. "Because there's no one left to wait."
His hand slipped from the railing.
For one second, he felt light — weightless. Like the world had finally let go of him too.
Then came the fall.
Then the water.
The river hit like a wall of knives, cold and merciless. His lungs screamed, and the city lights vanished into blur.
He sank, deeper and deeper, the cold wrapping around him until he couldn't tell where his body ended.
He didn't fight. Didn't want to.
He just closed his eyes and let the silence take him.
"Maybe this is how I'm meant to disappear," he thought as his heartbeat slowed. "Quietly. Without anyone noticing."
His last breath escaped in a trail of bubbles that rose toward the fading light — and then, everything went still.
---
Light.
Warmth.
He awoke to the sound of voices — soft, gentle, not quite human. His vision blurred, colors swimming before they took shape.
He tried to move, but his body felt… small. Weak. Wrong.
What's happening?
Shapes leaned over him — faces, glowing faintly in golden light.
A woman — hair like sunlight, eyes like calm water — smiled down at him. Her lips moved softly, and a melody of unfamiliar words filled the air.
"Liah'tena… shia vel moren," she whispered.
He didn't understand a thing, yet her tone wrapped around him like warmth he hadn't felt in years.
Beside her stood a man, tall and strong, with dark hair and a grin that looked alive.
"Saer'ven tael! Na'thia elen!" he said, laughing, his voice echoing with joy.
The words made no sense.
It wasn't English.
It wasn't any language from Earth.
This… isn't my world.
The woman cradled him carefully, and when her skin touched his, he felt something real.
Alive.
He looked at his own hands — tiny, trembling, soft. His chest tightened.
I died, didn't I?
And now… I'm…
The man leaned closer, pride shining in his strange gray eyes. Their clothes shimmered faintly, runes pulsing across them, and even the ceiling above seemed alive — veins of glowing wood stretching across it.
This is another world.
He couldn't understand their words, but he could feel what they meant.
The woman pressed her forehead gently to his, whispering,
"Shala… mi'en tael. Va'len serah."
He didn't know the translation, but he didn't need it.
He could feel it — love. Pure and soft.
Something bloomed in his chest, something warm and achingly familiar. His eyes stung. Not from sadness. From relief.
No one waited for me in my old life, he thought, as his new body drifted toward sleep.
But maybe… this time, someone will.
And for the first time in years, he let himself rest — not as a man who gave up on life,
but as a soul reborn into hope.