His voice grew urgent, a fragile hope clinging to his words. "Mom, I'm here. I love you. I'll stay with you, but please… find rest." The seconds dragged on, heavy and unyielding, as the son bore witness to a soul imprisoned, caught between agony and eternity, in a world where death could no longer come.
"GRAAAAAAHHHH!" John shouted in anger and despair; he could not fathom how the living perceived his gift. "Ingrates, all of them!" He bellowed at the top of his lungs. He jumped off the skyscraper, and he landed on the pavement below like he had just jumped off from a short height. His act startled the confused people around them, but he walked off like it was nothing.
John stormed away from the place where he landed, his heart heavy with disappointment. The world he had given—a world without new life or death—was met not with gratitude, but with grief and sorrow. His footsteps echoed hollowly as he wandered through the silent streets, the weight of his choices pressing down on him.
Ahead, the glow of a hospital drew his attention. He entered quietly, moving through sterile corridors until he found a small room where a pregnant woman sat by the window, tears streaming down her face. "Why are you crying? Shouldn't you be rejoicing at this new world that you have?" he curiously asked the pregnant woman.
She looked up as John approached, her voice trembling. "I'm due in a few days," she said, voice thick with fear. "But I've heard… no one can give birth anymore, no method works. What if I never meet my child? What if I'm doomed to lose them before they even arrive?"
John's footsteps faltered as he watched the pregnant woman rise, her tears glistening in the pale light. He approached slowly, his voice softer now, carrying a hint of hope. "I truly believe this world—without births or deaths—is a gift. No more pain, no more heartbreak. It's peace."
She turned to him, her eyes weary but gentle. "I understand why you feel that way," she said quietly, her hand resting protectively on her belly. "But this is not peace, this is torment."
John's gaze wavered. "But think—no more funerals, no more empty chairs at the table. Families won't be torn apart anymore."
She offered a small, sad smile. "That's true. Yet, it's the fleeting nature of life that gives it meaning. The moments we have—the hellos and goodbyes—they shape our love and our hope. Without them, life feels… hollow."
He looked down, the weight of her words settling in. "I wanted to spare the world from suffering. From loss."
"And that kindness is clear," she replied gently. "But in a world that has no pain, we've also lost the chance to truly live—to welcome new life, to say goodbye, to grow through it all." She rose, determination replacing sorrow. "I'm going to the chapel to pray. Maybe there's still hope, leaving John standing alone beneath the hospital's dim light, heart heavy but stirred by a newfound understanding."
John watched her leave, the weight of her words settling deep within him. He left the hospital and made his way back to their old house—the place where memories lingered like ghosts. Once there, he stood beneath the mango tree in the backyard, its branches heavy with fruit, leaves whispering in the breeze. Memories flooded him—the laughter of his family, the warmth of simpler times.
The soft glow of the nursery lamp bathed the room in warmth as John gently cradled Cecilia for the very first time. Her tiny fingers curled instinctively around his thumb, and a fragile, perfect life rested against his chest. His breath caught, eyes shining with a joy so profound it seemed to fill every corner of the room.
"She's beautiful, Selina," John whispered, his voice trembling. "Our little miracle."
Selina smiled, tears glistening in her eyes as she reached out to touch their daughter's soft cheek. "She's everything we ever hoped for."
John sat cross-legged on the dilapidated floor, looking at the area where Cecilia wobbled uncertainly before taking her first tentative steps. Her laughter filled the room, pure and bright, and John's heart swelled with pride.
"Look at her go!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands. "Our little explorer."
Selina's voice echoed through the hollowed hall. "She's so brave."
He stood up and went to what was once their kitchen, and remembered the day Cecilia's voice filled the house—not with words, but with song. Tentative notes floated from her lips, a melody both simple and enchanting. John's lips curled into a smile at the memory. "That's my girl! Singing already?"
"She's going to fill this house with music." He could still feel Selina laugh softly, wrapping an arm around him.
John looked down at his arms as he instinctively made a cradle and held the memory of Cecilia as an infant close, feeling the steady beat of her tiny heart against his own. In those moments, the world was perfect—full of hope, love, and endless possibility. Every smile, every step, every note was a precious gift, a reminder of the life they had created together.
And as he recalled Cecilia's peaceful face, John knew that no joy could ever compare to the wonder of holding his daughter in his arms.
He recalled a promise made to Selina just minutes before the crash that took them both. She had looked at him, worry etched on her face. "John, don't you think we're spoiling Cee?" she'd said softly.
He had chuckled, brushing a stray hair from her forehead. "We're not spoiling her. We're just doting on her."
Selina's eyes had held a fierce hope. "If I go first… promise me you'll protect her, not from pain or loss, but from making the wrong decisions. I want to make sure she grows strong. Not a spoiled little brat."
John's breath caught as he looked up at the sky, voice barely a whisper. "Our daughter… she's become stronger than I ever imagined. Stronger than me. If you were here now… you'd be proud of her. I'm so sorry, Selina. I protected Cee from making wrong decisions, but I did not protect myself!"