The wind howled fiercely until dawn.
It had rained heavily the night before.
Dense, slanted drops of water struck the window, and the splashes blurred the figure of the person inside the room, leaning against the glass.
This was a man wearing a dark gray coat. He had a thin build, slightly curly hair, regular features, but a gaunt face. He had dark, heavy circles under his eyes, and his tired, bloodshot gaze showed the look of a dead man.
He stared seriously at the electronic clock in front of him and counted the numbers displayed.
"Five-thirty in the afternoon…" The man stood up, left his home, and walked toward a bridge that was secluded from the town center where he was staying.
Today could be the end of his life.
There was no need to know his name, since he was someone who would soon die and be forgotten.
But in his short life, he had learned many things. One of them was that life is too short to waste time thinking about others. He realized now that the only thing one must do to avoid regret at the end of the road is to always be right and do what one wants.
He wanted to advise people that it doesn't matter if you're a good person or simply someone who seeks what they like in the moment they're living—both kinds of people share something in common, and that is impulse.
A good person acts without thinking twice before they die, and on the other hand, someone who just seeks what they enjoy always lives with the thought that their end might come at any moment.
He had been a young man everyone pitied. Unfortunately for his story—which could have been better—cancer was his executioner.
"I want to tell you a little about myself before I die…"
It all started when I was only seven years old. The first time they told me I had cancer, it didn't hit me very hard. At that age, I didn't fully understand the gravity of the illness I had inherited.
My parents were devastated, of course, but I just wanted to go back to playing, to live my life like any other kid. I spent months in treatments, chemotherapy, hospital visits, and they would tell me I had to be strong, that everything would be okay. And I did it admirably, with the sole desire of not seeing my parents cry. I fought with all my strength.
Luck, some would call it, at least at first. I defeated cancer—my first great battle.
The relief was immense for everyone in my family.
I returned to school, to afternoons at the park, to laughter with my friends. But it didn't last long. At twelve years old, the cancer returned.
This time, I was more aware that I could die, and that terrified me. I knew something was wrong when the pain became more constant and more intense.
Once again, the same routine: doctors, treatments, the uncertainty of what would happen to me. And once again, I overcame it.
By then, they had already nicknamed me "the young warrior," and I clung to that title not only to earn money by sharing my story with the world, but also to be an inspiration to young children who give up before even starting to fight.
That made me feel invincible, as if nothing could defeat me. How many could say they had beaten cancer twice before turning fifteen?
But life isn't that simple, as I learned later. At eighteen, the cancer came back for a third time. I was in the middle of my teenage years, trying to enjoy the freedom of youth, to go out, to fall in love just once—just once, damn it.
But once again, the diagnosis poured over my life and my parents' like a bucket of cold water.
I thought I wouldn't be able to bear it, that maybe this time I wouldn't make it. But I did. To overcome it, I told myself that my parents shouldn't have to watch their son die. Not without scars, of course, not without pain, but I did it—for them.
The years went by, but I always lived with that silent fear that the curse of my life would return. At twenty-six, when I believed everything was going well, a pain in my abdomen brought me back to the hospital.
This time, I was already a responsible adult, someone who had returned everything my parents once gave me. Thankfully, they never learned about my condition.
At least, my dear parents never knew in their old age that the pain in my stomach was pancreatic cancer. And this time, there was no turning back. The cancer had spread.
Hearing the words "terminal stage" felt like receiving a slow, cold, empty death sentence.
I had fought so many times, and I had won every one of my battles.
But this time… this time I knew there was no possible victory, and that I would finally lose.
What hurts the most isn't the end itself, but everything I will leave behind.
The dreams I won't fulfill, the people I won't see grow old.
I think about my parents, who watched me fight since I was a child. I think about the simple things—sunlight on my face, the smell of rain, the laughter of my friends.
I know I don't have much time left, and although it terrifies me, I'm also tired. Tired of fighting, tired of living with cancer's shadow always looming over every day of my life, and worst of all, angry at seeing my parents suffer because of me.
This time there would be no miracle. No battle left to win. But if life has taught me anything through all these struggles, it's that although you can't always win, true bravery lies in moving forward, in facing fear with dignity. And that's what I will do. Until my last breath, I told myself that I must fight with dignity.
The first thing I did was leave my parents memories of my smile, hundreds of videos telling stories and celebrating my parents' birthdays—days I didn't even know if they would live to see.
I left them everything I had, visited them during my best moments, and now that my end was coming—my God—I would die my own way.
Yes, I don't like to admit it openly in these words I'm writing, but I would die by my own actions before cancer did. That, to me, would be defeating cancer once more.
"Dying by jumping off this bridge…" An ironic smile curved on the lips of the dying man who had sought a quiet town so his death would be less shocking.
Looking down at the abyss from the edge of the bridge, he was about to jump—I swear, he was about to do it. He was going to do it until he heard growling and a girl who seemed to be calling for help.
And so, when I saw that perfect situation to die—where a stranger needed the help of someone brave, a man everyone knew as the King of Heroes—I threw myself into one more battle without thinking twice.
When I say my final fight, don't imagine anything extraordinary. I was just a poor, weak man dying at the hands of a furious beast. Blood gushed from my wounds, unstoppable. If only I hadn't saved that girl from the dog's attack, she might not have seen a new dawn.
I sought death, but I didn't regret it. I knew that under any other circumstances, I would have saved her as well. It was something instinctive in me, the way I had always been. At least that girl will have a life she can live under her own rules. I, on the other hand, am slowly being embraced by the darkness.
I can't move, my eyes are closing slowly, and I can tell you that the sensation of death doesn't exist. Only something pulling you into quiet darkness. If I hadn't had a death sentence hanging over me, I would tell you with my own words that death is compassionate and asks whether you want to go to it or return.
At least in my situation, I could no longer return. I had come back from death's arms so many times that I had exhausted my chances, but someone else could return. From my experience, I knew that simply feeling the desire to live for someone else is the way back. At least, that's how it felt all the countless times I returned.
Dying without doing anything I ever wanted is not called living. I didn't even experience my first love…
I just want to sleep now and be remembered as a brave hero until the end—for my parents. Their only son, who died doing what was right, not taking his own life as he had planned…
"Dad, Mom, I hope you can be happy again. I want you to overcome my death and have joyful days…"
Little did I know that after dying, without me imagining it, national news would do its job reporting my heroic sacrifice.
…
"In a tragic and heroic incident, a man whose identity has not yet been revealed saved the life of a girl who was being attacked by a dangerous dog on the outskirts of Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, last night. Despite managing to rescue her, the man died shortly after due to the severe injuries he sustained during the confrontation."
"The incident occurred near a bridge, where the man, who was alone at the time, heard the girl's desperate cries for help. Without hesitation, our hero rushed to her aid, confronting the dog that threatened her. Witnesses stated that the man fought with great bravery, shielding the girl until the animal was driven away. Although he saved her, he himself was gravely injured."
"After the attack, the girl was quickly transported to a nearby hospital, where she is recovering from minor injuries. Her parents, shocked but deeply grateful, described the man as a 'guardian angel' who appeared at the perfect moment to save their daughter."
"The local community has expressed deep shock at this act of heroism."
'We didn't know him, but he will be remembered as a hero. He gave his life to save a little girl, and that says a lot about his character,' commented a resident.
"Local authorities are already organizing tributes in his honor, highlighting his bravery and sacrifice. There is even talk of creating a monument for him."
"Though his identity has not yet been revealed, this man will be remembered for his selfless act of heroism, proving that in the darkest moments, kindness and courage can shine beyond sacrifice within anyone who hears this story."