A lifetime in a single second

As it traveled through the air, slicing through dust and silence, my mind expanded, stretching to contain the entirety of my life within the single second before impact.

I was seven years old again, chasing fireflies in my grandmother’s backyard. The air smelled of wet earth, and her laughter rang in the distance. "Catch one and make a wish," she had told me. I had cupped my hands around a flickering light, whispering my secret: *I wish I could fly*.

I was twelve, running home in the rain, my schoolbag heavier than the storm clouds above. My father’s silhouette stood at the door, his belt clenched in his fist. I had failed a test. I braced for pain.

I was sixteen, kissing Mira behind the bleachers, my heart thudding louder than the distant cheers from the football game. Her lips tasted like strawberries, and for the first time, I believed in forever.

I was twenty-one, standing over my mother’s coffin, gripping the edges so hard my nails bent. The priest’s voice was a muffled echo in the sea of grief. I had thought I’d have more time to make her proud.

The bullet carved its path closer.

I was thirty-five, staring at a city skyline through an office window, my reflection barely recognizable. Promotions, paychecks, performance reviews—hollow victories stacked like bricks in a prison of my own making.

Forty. A midlife crisis. A motorcycle. A reckless ride along the cliffs. Wind in my hair, death whispering in my ear, reminding me I was still alive.

Fifty. A book with my name on it. The dedication page: *For Mira, who taught me what moment was, and for my mother, who taught me what strength meant.*

Sixty. Gray at my temples. Wrinkles like old maps on my hands. Sitting on a park bench, watching children chase fireflies.

Seventy. A hospital bed. The steady beep of a machine counting down my heartbeats. My breath shallow, my body weak. Regret tasted like metal.

The bullet was inches away.

I saw everything. Every joy. Every sorrow. Every mistake. Every triumph.

And then—impact.

Darkness.

Silence.

But in that final moment, just before oblivion, something flickered.

Light.

And the memory of a child’s whisper:

I wish I could fly.*

I was twenty-five, in a cheap apartment with peeling wallpaper, writing stories no one would read. Each rejection letter was a new wound, each failure a heavier weight.

I was thirty, watching Mira walk away, her suitcase bumping against the floor.

I was thirty-five, staring at a city skyline through an office window, my reflection barely recognizable. Promotions, paychecks, performance reviews—hollow victories stacked like bricks in a prison of my own making.

Forty. A midlife crisis. A motorcycle. A reckless ride along the cliffs. Wind in my hair, death whispering in my ear, reminding me I was still alive.

Fifty. A book with my name on it. The dedication page: *For Mira, who taught me what love was, and for my mother, who taught me what strength meant.*

Sixty. Gray at my temples. Wrinkles like old maps on my hands. Sitting on a park bench, watching children chase fireflies.

Seventy. A hospital bed. The steady beep of a machine counting down my heartbeats. My breath shallow, my body weak. Regret tasted like metal.

The bullet was inches away.

I saw everything. Every joy. Every sorrow. Every mistake. Every triumph.

And then—impact.

Darkness.

Silence.

But in that final moment, just before oblivion, something flickered.

Light.

And the memory of a child’s whisper:

I wish I could fly.*

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