The last chord faded into the air like a dry leaf carried away by the autumn wind. The room, once filled with lights and applause, was now a damp silence, barely broken by the whisper of the mechanical ventilator. In the center of the stage, only an empty chair remained. The microphone, still on, emitted a faint hum, as if the world were waiting for an answer that would never come.
In a room on the third floor of San Rafael Hospital, Niel lay on a narrow bed, surrounded by cables, tubes, and machines that marked every second of his existence with monotonous beeps. His body, once strong, full of energy and voice, was now a shadow of what it had been. His arms, thin as dry branches, rested on the white sheets. His face, pale and sunken, seemed carved from wax. But his eyes... his eyes still shone. Not with the light of health, but with that of a soul refusing to fade.
He had been a shooting star. At twenty-two, Niel had achieved the dream so many long for: singing in stadiums, seeing his name on billboards, hearing thousands chant his lyrics. His voice, deep and warm like fire in winter, had moved an entire generation. Songs about love, loss, the desire to transcend... they were anthems for those who felt invisible. And he, the kid from the neighborhood, son of a single mother who worked three shifts to pay for his singing lessons, had made it there. He had touched the sky with his fingers.
But sometimes, the sky drags you down.
It started in the middle of his first world tour. A dull pain in his chest, which doctors first attributed to stress. Then, his voice began to fail. Notes he once mastered with ease now shattered like glass. Concerts were canceled. Rumors grew. Until, after months of tests, the diagnosis came: Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS). A rare, cruel disease that devoured the nerves little by little, paralyzing the body while the mind remained intact. An invisible prison.
"There's no cure," the doctor said, in a voice meant to be compassionate, but to Niel it sounded like a sentence.
"How much time?" he asked, without looking at him.
"A year. Maybe two. It depends on how it progresses."
Niel nodded. He didn't cry. He didn't scream. He just looked out the window, at the gray sky of the city, and thought: "Just when I was starting to shine..."
Months passed. First, he lost control of his hands. He could no longer play the piano, his first love. Then, his legs. He stopped walking. After that, his voice. It grew weak at first, then inaudible. He could only whisper. And in the end, not even that. Only his eyes could speak.
But his mind... his mind was still alive. Full of music. Of memories.
He remembered his mother, sitting in the kitchen of their small apartment, listening to him sing while she washed the dishes. She didn't understand vocal techniques, but she knew when her son sang with his soul. "Dying singing is being born resonating in another place," she always told him, with that tired but sweet smile. She died when he was sixteen, from a heart attack in the middle of her night shift. She never got to see him succeed. But Niel always sang for her. Every note was a tribute.
And now, while the outside world forgot his name, while new idols took his place in the rankings, he was there, in that bed, remembering. Remembering every concert, every hug from a fan, every handwritten letter, every tear shed on stage by someone who said his music saved their life.
He didn't regret it.
No.
Because he had lived doing what he loved. He had given every drop of himself to music. And though his body was fading, his spirit still vibrated.
And that night, as the rain gently tapped the window and the city lights shone in the distance like fallen stars, Niel felt it was time.
With eyes full of tears, he looked at the ceiling. And with the last strength he had left, he whispered a song. Not one he had written, not one the world knew. But a new one. One that was born in that instant, from the deepest part of his being. A soft, sad melody, but full of peace. A farewell.
And as he sang, he smiled.
A true smile. Of gratitude. Of closure.
And slowly, he closed his eyes.
The monitor emitted a long, steady beep.
His heart stopped.
The world went dark.
-----------------------------------
But it wasn't the end.
Niel opened his eyes.
He was on the floor. Cold. Wet. The smell of bathroom cleaner and dampness invaded his nostrils. He blinked, confused. Where was he? The hospital? The white room? No. This was different. A small bathroom, with gray marble tiles, a gold-framed mirror, a warm light that flickered slightly. The air smelled of jasmine and floor wax.
He sat up with difficulty, leaning against the wall. His body... it wasn't the same. It wasn't weak. He didn't feel the pain in his chest. There were no tubes, no cables. He looked at his hands. Strong. Young. Alive.
"What... what happened?" he whispered, and his voice... his voice was clear. Strong. Like before.
He crawled to the mirror. He looked at himself.
A boy about twenty-three years old stared back from the reflection. Messy brown hair, as if he'd just woken up. Deep blue eyes, almost sad, but full of fire. Thin face, lips chapped from anxiety. It wasn't his face from before, but... it was his. He felt it.
Suddenly, an avalanche of memories hit him. They weren't his memories. They were someone else's. Of a boy named James, the band's drummer. Of Daniel, the bassist, quiet, with scars on his arms he never explained. Of Emily, the guitarist, with the soul of a queen and the heart of a warrior. And of him... of Niel, the lead singer. Not the famous solo artist, but the leader of an unknown band that played in parks, dive bars, and college parties where no one listened.
Foreign memories, but now they were his. Emotions that didn't belong to him, but he felt as his own. The hunger of a whole day without eating. The cold of winter in an apartment without heat. The shame of borrowing money to pay rent. The hope that was reborn every time someone said: "Your music touched me."
And then he understood.
He hadn't died.
He had been reborn.
In another body. In another life. In another world.
And though he didn't know how or why, one certainty invaded him: he had a second chance.
At that moment, knocks on the door pulled him from his thoughts.
"Niel? Are you okay?" The voice was deep, worried. James.
Niel swallowed. His throat trembled. It wasn't his friend. It wasn't his life. But... it was his band. His family.
"James..." he said, without thinking, in a voice he didn't know he'd use. "I'm fine. Coming out soon."
Silence on the other side. Then, a soft laugh.
"Good. Emily says the guests are arriving soon. And that we could play something while they wait."
"Yeah... yeah, sure," Niel replied, looking at himself in the mirror again.
His eyes shone. Not from illness. Not from sadness. From hope.
He stood up, washed his face with cold water. The foggy mirror cleared little by little, like his mind. And when he left the bathroom, he did so with a smile. A smile he hadn't felt in years. A smile that wasn't just his, but of all those who had dreamed of something more.
The hall was enormous. An ancient event room in a 19th-century mansion, with twelve-meter ceilings, crystal chandeliers that shone like fallen stars, walls covered in ivory silk, and polished marble floors that reflected every step. Outside, a garden lit with golden lanterns, where guests were already arriving in limousines and luxury cars. The air smelled of fresh flowers, champagne, and money.
It was Claire's wedding, Emily's cousin. They grew up together, inseparable until Emily decided to drop out of law school to pursue her dream of being a musician. Her parents, elite entrepreneurs, disinherited her. They kicked her out of the house. Claire, though part of that world, never judged her. On the contrary, she was always her refuge. And now, at her wedding, she had asked something unexpected:
"I want you to play. My favorite band. Even if no one knows you yet."
And they accepted.
Not for the money. Not for the luxury. But because it was an opportunity. The first time they would play in a place like this. Where, maybe, someone important would hear them. Where, maybe, someone would remember them.
The stage was at the back of the hall, under an arch of white roses. It was small, almost humiliating compared to the surrounding luxury. A microphone, a couple of borrowed amplifiers, tangled cables, used instruments with dents and chipped paint. James's drum set had a broken cymbal, taped with black duct tape. Daniel's bass had a spare string from another model. Emily's guitar, the best cared for, still had a crack near the neck, repaired with resin.
And Niel... Niel had a borrowed suit. Black, a bit too big, with the cuffs folded. It wasn't designer. It wasn't elegant. But it was the best they had.
When he came out of the bathroom, he found them already setting up. James was adjusting the drum stool, cursing under his breath. Daniel was checking the bass strings, with a serious expression. Emily, with her back turned, was tuning her guitar, her shoulders tense.
"The sleepyhead's out," James said, without looking.
"I didn't sleep," Niel replied, in a voice that surprised everyone.
Emily turned around.
"Are you okay? I saw you go into the bathroom like you were about to faint."
Niel nodded. He couldn't explain what he felt. He couldn't tell them that he had just died, that he had lived another life, that he had loved, suffered, triumphed, and lost everything in a breath. That now, in this body, with these people, with this band... it all made sense.
"I'm fine," he said, and smiled. "Just... needed a moment."
Emily looked at him intently. She always had. As if she could see beyond words.
"Today is important," she said. "Not for the place. Not for the guests. But because... it's the first time someone chooses us. Not out of pity. Not out of charity. Because they like what we do."
Daniel nodded, without looking up.
"My parents will be here," he murmured. "They haven't spoken to me since I left home. But Claire invited them. I don't know if they'll come. But if they do... I want them to hear something worthwhile."
James stopped adjusting the cymbal.
"I just don't want us to get booed," he said, with a forced smile. "Last time we played at a party, they asked us to turn down the volume because we were 'interrupting the conversation.'"
Niel looked at them all. His band. His family.
And in that instant, he remembered his past life. The illness. The death. The final song. And he understood.
Niel felt a lump in his throat. It wasn't just his story. It was all of theirs. James, whose father kicked him out for playing rock. Daniel, who lost his brother in an accident and never got over the silence. Emily, who gave up a life of privilege for a dream no one understood.
And him... him who had lived his dream, and lost everything. Who had died with a song on his lips.
All of them were ghosts of what the world wanted them to be. All had been broken, discarded, ignored. And yet, they were still there. With their worn instruments, borrowed suits, broken but still burning dreams.
And in that hall of gold and crystal, surrounded by people who would never look at them, they were about to do something no one expected: sing with their souls.
"We're not going to play to impress," he said, in a firm voice. "We're going to play to be heard. So that someone, in the midst of all this luxury, feels something. So that someone remembers there are people who fight, who dream, who sing even if the world ignores them."
There was a silence.
Then, Emily nodded.
"So... what do we play?"
Niel looked at the hall. At the guests arriving in gala dresses, champagne glasses, empty laughs. At the groom waiting for his future wife. At life going on, indifferent.
And he knew.
"I don't know yet," he said. "But when the time comes... we'll know."
James smiled.
"Like always."
Daniel adjusted a string.
"Then we'd better tune everything."
Emily picked up her guitar, caressed it as if it were alive.
"We're ready."
Niel looked at his hands. Strong. Alive. Capable of holding a microphone. Of striking a chord. Of shouting to the world.
And he thought of his mother.
"Dying singing is being born resonating in another place."
He closed his eyes. Breathed deeply.
And when he opened them, he was no longer just Niel, the boy who had died.
He was Niel, the one who had been reborn.
And he was ready.