The beeping slowed.
On the television, the broadcast faded into a commercial.
The boy's eyes drifted shut.
His final thought wasn't of pain.
It wasn't of abandonment.
It was of a simple, impossible dream—
A warm meal placed gently before him.
And somewhere beyond the hospital walls, beyond the screen, beyond the reach of this life—
Something heard him.
The room trembled—not from an earthquake, not from chaos—but from the sound of a heart losing its rhythm.
Beep… beep…
Beep…
The machine hesitated.
The boy's chest rose shallowly, each breath thinner than the last. The pain had faded, replaced by something worse—distance. His fingers felt far away. His legs might as well have belonged to someone else.
The ceiling blurred.
The world was slipping.
The heart monitor let out a long, strained tone.
"—beeeeeeeee—"
That sound should have terrified him.
It didn't.
He felt… calm.
For the first time since he could remember, the hunger wasn't screaming. The ache wasn't clawing at him. Even the longing—the constant, sharp, unbearable longing—had softened into something gentle.
Like acceptance.
So this is death, he thought.
It wasn't cold.
It wasn't painful.
It was quiet.
The machines continued their work, unaware that their patient was already halfway gone. The IV drip slowed as the bag emptied, the clear liquid finally running dry after seventeen years of service.
That drip had fed him his whole life.
And now, it was empty.
His vision narrowed into a tunnel, the edges darkening as if someone were slowly dimming the lights. Sounds stretched, warped, then faded entirely.
But his mind—
His mind was clear.
Clearer than it had ever been.
If this is the end, he thought, then I should say it properly.
He had never prayed before.
Not because he didn't believe—
But because he didn't see the point.
What kind of god lets a child love food but never taste it?
Still…
If this was truly the final moment—
He gathered his thoughts carefully, like ingredients laid out on a counter.
One by one.
No embellishment.
No lies.
Just truth.
"If anyone's listening…"
His fingers clenched weakly into the blanket.
"I don't need much."
His voice trembled, each word scraping his throat raw.
"I know I'm greedy… asking now."
He let out a faint, breathless laugh.
"But if I could have just one wish…"
He pictured it.
A plate set in front of him. Steam curling upward. A fork resting in his hand. The first bite.
The taste.
"I want to eat," he whispered. "Just once."
I want to taste real food.
Not nutrition.
Not chemicals.
Not liquid sustenance.
Food.
Salt that stings.
Heat that burns.
Sweetness that lingers.
I want to know what it feels like, he thought softly, to chew… and swallow… and feel warmth spread through my body.
Even if it was just once.
Just once would be enough.
Another pause. His chest tightened again, but he pushed through it.
"And if I'm allowed to ask for more my Second wish. …"
The image of the chef flashed through his mind—standing tall beneath bright studio lights, smiling as he shared his craft with the world.
"I want to meet him."
I want to meet my idol.
The chef who taught him what passion looked like.
The man who failed on television—and stood back up.
The man who cooked like every dish mattered.
I don't need to be special, he thought. I just want to say thank you.
Thank you—for giving meaning to something he could never have.
Thank you—for letting him live through someone else's hands.
I want to look him in the eye, he whispered in his mind, and know that people like him really exist.
His breathing grew shallow.
"And for my third wish"
This one took longer.
Because it hurt the most.
"I want to stand in a kitchen. To hold a knife. To cook something that matters."
His vision darkened at the edges.
"I don't want to just watch anymore."
The machines beside him began to beep faster, their rhythm uneven.
His strength drained rapidly, his limbs growing heavy, distant.
"I want… a life with food," he whispered.
I want to live as a chef.
Not famous.
Not rich.
Not admired.
Just… alive in a kitchen.
Sweat on his back.
Burns on his fingers.
Calluses from knives.
I want to cook something, he thought, emotion finally cracking through his calm, that makes someone feel full.
Not just in the stomach.
But in the heart.
The tunnel of darkness tightened.
The last sliver of the hospital room vanished.
The sound—
That long, flat tone—
Finally cut out.
Silence followed.
Nothing replaced it.
No light.
No pain.
No relief.
Just—
Darkness.
Complete.
Absolute.
Endless.
He waited.
Seconds passed.
Or minutes.
Or nothing at all.
Time no longer existed.
So this is it, he thought distantly.
I guess wishes don't—
Something interrupted him.
Not a voice.
Not at first.
More like… information.
A presence that wasn't warm or cold.
Not kind.
Not cruel.
Just there.
Then—
Words formed.
Not spoken.
Not whispered.
They appeared directly inside his consciousness—precise, stripped of emotion.
Desire detected.
He froze.
…What?
The darkness didn't change, but the sensation did. It was like standing in an empty room and suddenly realizing you weren't alone.
Life trajectory: terminated.
Emotional residue: high.
Unfulfilled fixation: extreme.
The words weren't judgmental.
They weren't comforting either.
They simply were.
Desire classification: Persistent.
Subject fixation: Food. Creation. Experience.
Images flickered through the void.
A hospital room.
A drip.
A television screen.
Fire dancing in a pan.
A knife striking a cutting board.
His memories.
Organized.
Labeled.
Analyzed.
Wish parameters identified.
The presence paused.
For the first time, there was something like… consideration.
Request one: Sensory experience—taste.
Request two: Contact with designated figure—"Idol."
Request three: Occupational existence—Chef.
His consciousness trembled.
This isn't heaven, he realized.
And it's not hell.
It felt closer to a system.
Cold.
Logical.
Efficient.
What… are you? he thought weakly.
There was no answer.
Instead—
Feasibility analysis complete.
The darkness shifted—not visually, but structurally. As if the void itself were being rearranged.
Desire confirmed.
The words echoed, heavy and final.
Then—
Evolution permitted.
For a brief instant, something appeared.
Not a screen.
Not light.
Not holograms like in the shows he watched.
Just… concept.
A framework.
A path.
He sensed it more than saw it—like blueprints etched into reality itself.
Growth.
Iteration.
Failure.
Refinement.
No shortcuts.
No miracles.
Only progression.
No external authority assigned.
No guaranteed success.
No replacement of effort.
It was almost… honest.
The presence didn't promise happiness.
It didn't promise victory.
It didn't even promise his wishes would come true exactly as he imagined.
It only allowed possibility.
That was enough.
Before he could respond—before he could ask anything—
The sensation vanished.
The framework collapsed inward.
The darkness surged.
Process initiating.
His consciousness began to unravel.
Thoughts scattered like loose pages caught in a sudden wind.
Wait—
I have questions—
But there was no reply.
No reassurance.
No farewell.
Only one final line, fading as he fell deeper into unconsciousness.
Begin.
And then—
Nothing.
No dreams.
No sensation.
No awareness.
The boy who had lived seventeen years without taste lost consciousness completely.
Somewhere far beyond that darkness—beyond logic and analysis, beyond systems and wishes—
A heartbeat began.
Slow.
Unsteady.
New.
And for the first time—
It wasn't connected to a machine.