End of One's Life

They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die.

But what if there's nothing left to remember?

No name.

No face.

No past.

Only the sense that something was missing---something precious, now lost.

---

It was a quiet afternoon in a city like any other.

It was the kind of stillness that settled over just before rush hour.

When the wind paused, and even the birds fell silent.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a hazy golden light across rooftops, tangled wires, and faded apartment buildings.

A tricycle rumbled past in the distance.

Somewhere nearby, a dog barked once, then stopped.

The streets were mostly empty.

Shadows stretched long across the pavement. The heat clung to the ground, heavy and humid, as if the city itself was holding its breath.

Then as the final second ticked away and the day's seventeenth hour began.

A bell rang loudly.

Sharp and sudden. A school bell. One... two... three times.

And the silence shattered.

Students spilled out of gates in uniforms, laughing and shouting, some dragging their bags behind them.

Office workers emerged from buildings in loose crowds, checking their phones, adjusting their bags.

Vendors lifted the lids off steaming pots, the scent of broth and frying oil quickly mixing with the smell of sweat and asphalt.

Voices rose. Jeepneys and vans honked. Barkers called out routes with practiced urgency.

The city came alive.

And then-

A single raindrop hit the ground.

Then another. And another.

Within moments, clouds rolled in-thick, gray, and low. A gust of wind swept through the street, carrying dust and wrappers and the sudden smell of wet concrete.

Then the sky broke.

Rain poured down in sheets, heavy and cold. Umbrellas popped open like flowers. The streets turned slick and reflective—like sheets of glass beneath the rain.

People shouted, stumbled, laughed. Slippers slapped through puddles.

A student fell over, pushed by the crowd—her skirt ended up soaked by muddy water. "I'm dead" she muttered to her friend while standing, laughing.

Vendors scrambled to cover their stalls, shielding their wares from the sudden downpour.

It was a chaotic bustle.

Yet, mere steps from the bustling city, a narrow alley lay hidden and forgotten.

And deep in this cluttered, desolate space that seems to be a whole world apart, a man lay in the filth, barely conscious.

His body was curled halfway in a pool of dirty water, trash pressed to his side, rain clinging to every inch of him.

His breath came in shallow gasps. The wet air stinging his lungs.

When he awoke a few minutes ago, he didn't know how he got there.

Only that everything hurt.

His skin burned. His bones throbbed. Something sharp twisted in his chest every time he inhaled.

He opened his eyes, blinking against the sting of rain, and stared up at the cloudy sky above the buildings.

For a moment, all he could do was lie there and breathe.

Then—something stirred.

A flicker of a memory.

Running.

His shoes pounding on the pavement.

A dark alley. A shout behind him.

Shadows chasing him.

He turned to look at them but their faces were blurred by motion and panic.

But it was unmistakable he was being chased by men—four, maybe five—and they are closing in fast, shouting things he couldn't understand. Their words were muffled in his memory, like voices underwater.

He remembered the weight of fear pressing down on him. The way his heartbeat had drowned out the world. He remembered something about not getting involved.

Something about....

Then—he tripped.

The pavement hit him hard. He rolled. Tried to scramble back to his feet.

But they were already there.

Metal pipes. Fists. Boots.

Pain exploded through his body in flashes of red and white.

He remembered curling up, trying to shield his head.

He remembered the taste of blood.

And then—nothing.

Back in the present, a groan escaped his throat. His fingers twitched. He tried to move, but his limbs were too heavy. His head was pounding. He reached for the memory again—why had they done this? Did he know them? Had he done something wrong?

But the answer wouldn't come.

He searched the corners of his mind—but there was nothing. No name. No face. Not even his own. The past was a locked door, and all he could feel behind it was silence.

He was no one.

Just a broken body in the rain.

The pain flared again, sharp and hot in his chest. He coughed—and something wet and warm spilled from his mouth. He tasted iron.

Blood.

His body trembled. Darkness pushed in around the edges of his vision.

And then—

A voice.

Small and frightened.

"Save me… please."

A child's cry. Thin and distant, like it came from far away—but somehow, impossibly… familiar.

He blinked.

His heart skipped.

That voice—he knew it.

Or at least, he should have.

He clung to it, desperate, the way a drowning man clings to driftwood. He searched his mind again, tried to follow the sound back to its source. He could almost see it—almost remember—

But his lungs failed him.

He coughed again. This time it didn't stop. His chest convulsed. His body curled inward.

His vision blurred.

The cold stopped biting.

Even the pain began to fade.

That voice—whoever it belonged to—slipped away into the darkness.

And then, so did he.