The wind had been restless all day.
It moved through the city without urgency, slipping between buildings, brushing against windows, lifting dust from forgotten corners. The sky was heavy, swollen with moisture, as if rain had once considered falling and then changed its mind.
Standing at the edge, the air pressed against my skin. Cool. Damp. Real.That was how the day announced itself—not loudly, not dramatically, but with a quiet persistence that refused to be ignored.
It was a windy day.Moisture lingered in the air.And for a moment, I focused only on that.
Breathing.
Feeling.
Existing.
Below me, the city continued its routine with practiced indifference. Cars moved. People crossed streets. Conversations happened without awareness of the figure standing above them, detached from it all. From this height, everything looked smaller—problems, people, purpose. Or maybe it was only distance playing tricks on perception.
I had lived long enough to understand one thing clearly: presence does not guarantee being seen.
There was no dramatic sadness in that realization. No storm of emotions. Just a dull certainty, shaped over years, hardened by repetition. The world had always moved past without slowing down for me, and I had learned to move quietly within it, leaving as little disturbance as possible.
A nobody leaves no echo.
The wind brushed my face again, stronger this time, almost impatient. It tugged at my clothes as if urging a decision, though the decision had already been made long before this moment. Long before the height. Long before the edge.
There were no loud thoughts.No final speeches prepared for an invisible audience.
Only silence.
And the sound of the wind.
Then—I jumped.
The world did not scream when I left it.
Instead, it inhaled.
Air rushed past, sharp and sudden, tearing away any remaining sense of form or balance. The ground rose rapidly, yet strangely without menace, as if distance itself had lost meaning.
In midair, darkness spilled into my vision—not fear, not panic, but something heavier. Sound dissolved first. The wind vanished. The city disappeared. Even the idea of falling seemed to loosen, stretching thin like a thought half-forgotten.
Time softened.
Moments stopped obeying order.
Then, without warning, light surrounded me.
I was inside a tunnel—vast, luminous, and endless. It pulsed gently, not alive, but aware. Within it, fragments drifted past, scenes playing themselves out without asking permission.
Laughter.Crying.Rooms I recognized and faces I thought I had forgotten.
Happy moments—or at least moments I had convinced myself were happy. Quiet afternoons. Brief smiles. Passing conversations that once felt important simply because they acknowledged my existence.
And the sad ones.
The ones that stayed.
Unspoken words. Missed chances. Nights spent staring at ceilings, wondering when exhaustion had become a personality trait. Everything replayed without commentary, without judgment. No voice told me what mattered and what didn't.
It all existed equally.
Then the tunnel ended.
At its edge waited a void.
Not darkness—something deeper. Absence without hostility. A place where even the concept of place seemed unnecessary. I entered it without resistance, and for a brief moment, there was nothing at all.
No thought.No memory.No self.
Sound returned first.
A distant siren. Muffled. Unconcerned.
Then voices—layered, indistinct, rising and falling like waves that never reached shore.
I was no longer inside anything. I was above.
Below me lay a body.
Mine.
It rested on the ground in a way that felt wrong, twisted into stillness. Blood marked the space around it with careless finality. There was no movement. No breath. No tension waiting to release itself.
It didn't feel like me anymore.
It looked like an object the world had finished using.
People gathered slowly, cautiously, as if approaching something fragile or contagious. Someone covered their mouth. Someone else stepped back. A few raised phones before they fully understood what they were recording.
I watched without emotion, surprised by my own detachment.
As the minutes passed, reactions multiplied.
Camera shutters clicked.Notifications chimed.Voices found volume.
Photos were taken—some accidental, some intentional. Messages were typed. Posts were shared. The story began spreading faster than I ever had.
Those who were close—or claimed to be—wrote words they had never spoken when I could hear them.
"Such a good soul.""Gone too soon.""Always inspiring."
Emojis followed. Sad faces. Broken hearts. Tears made of pixels.
I wondered briefly where those words had been hiding all this time. Whether they had existed then, waiting for the correct context to emerge. Or whether absence simply made language easier.
The crowd thinned eventually, but the story did not. It continued online, carried forward by people who had never known me, shaping an image of someone important.
Someone meaningful.
And suddenly—I was.
I was a good person.Someone's love.Someone's hope.
Everything I had wanted to become—only after I was gone.
As the noise faded, something else replaced it.
A low vibration. A hum that resonated not in ears, but deeper. The edges of whatever I was began to blur, dissolving softly, like particles loosening their hold on form.
Thoughts scattered. Fears thinned. Hopes unraveled.
I transformed—not into something greater, not into something less—but into energy without ownership. Everything that had once defined me returned quietly to where it came from.
The air.The earth.The unnamed forces that never asked for credit.
Leaves rustled somewhere. Wind moved again, familiar and indifferent.
And in that final dispersal, there was clarity—not peace, not regret, but understanding.
Maybe that is the irony of this world.
You are ignored when you have everything—breath, time, presence—
and called a genius, a treasure, a miraclewhen you have nothing left to give.
The wind continued long after I no longer could.
And then, even that faded.