As I stand upon the rooftop, I look around and see the city’s lights—some stand still, others move, and a few disappear. I glance at the sky, at the clouds of fog and smog, and imagine the stars above. I look down to the street and see an old lady carrying heavy bags, slowly walking home despite each step growing a little heavier than the last. I look at my hands and remember what I used to be: a person, a someone. I imagine what I hoped to be. Hell, I remember hope itself. These hands were once agents of a better future. I fought, I endured, I dreamed.
As I stand on the edge, looking at my hands, a cold breeze pushes me toward the drop below, just enough to pull me from my thoughts. I stumble and instinctively put my right foot forward, but there is nothing there. I begin to lose balance and have to quickly take a step back to avoid falling.
How ironic. I came here to jump, yet I still move away from my goal.
I remember how pathetic I was: I lied, cheated, hurt, hated. I envied, mocked, ignored, and used my fellow conscious beings. In short, I caused pain.
On the rooftop across the street, I notice something—a man standing there, hands in his pockets, watching me, unmoving. A strange unease settles in my gut, and my instincts scream: run. That is exactly what I did—or more precisely, what I began doing. I ran a few steps before realizing: I cannot run forever. I turn around and walk toward the edge. The man is still there, watching me as my silhouette inches closer.
"As I watch the man regain his confidence and walk toward me, powerlessness creeps in; maybe my presence wasn’t enough to save him. His body language sheds its earlier cowardice. My mind races even though I stand completely still, but as he steps closer and closer to the abyss, I scream out:
- Don’t do it!
My voice is clear and commanding."
A faint voice comes from the man, his tone shaking, as if he isn’t sure he means what he says. Around us, the city seems to hum its usual rhythm, indifferent and uncaring. I glance at my watch: 11:45. Fifteen minutes left. In five minutes, the sirens around the world will begin their harmonious symphony, crying out like a mother holding her child, singing a final song before rest. The man knows it too. Everyone knows it. The grandma walking below us, the people in their homes saying goodbye to their loved ones, the rich, the poor, the powerful, the lost.
The world will end in fifteen minutes.
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“We stare at each other, both of us occasionally glancing down at our watches. He doesn’t respond to my call, and I don’t say anything more either. I tilt my head slightly upward, letting the cold wind embrace me, and close my eyes. Maybe it’s time to reflect on the past and present—and let the future go. I remember the joys, the laughter, the people, the quiet sunrises diligently lighting up the world each day, and myself as a child, excitedly waiting to wake up and start again. I remember it all: the memories of what has been, the suffering, the joy. What a strange experience this has been. Was it worth it? I suppose there’s no point in thinking about that now.
Lost in my thoughts, the sudden sound of the sirens catches me off guard.”
I shiver slightly as the world is bathed in the final symphony, my heart beginning to race. My mind spins with thoughts, desperately searching for an escape—but there is no escape. This is the end. Below us, the grandma slowly sets down her bags on the dirty pavement and looks up at the sky, as if searching for something that isn’t there. Not far away, someone screams as loud as they can, perhaps a final attempt at freedom, but the voice soon fades into resignation. I sigh deeply and wonder: Should I jump? What if the end is really painful? Should I take my chance and go on my own terms while I still can? Why suffer until the bitter end? Why fear the inevitable, regret the unchangeable, or cling to the bittersweet taste of false hope that my body desperately tries to convince me of?
The city at large seems oblivious to the end. You’d expect mayhem and chaos to tear it apart from the inside before the apocalypse even happens, but the majority of the city persists—for now. I clear my throat and yell back at the stranger:
- Why does it matter? Look around you. Everywhere you look, it’s the same. We are all dead men.
“His voice cuts through the repeating harmony of sirens, screams, cries, and the ever-rising cacophony of end-of-the-world parties around us. I reply:
- Are we? Our...
The earlier scream pierces the night again, cutting me off. But this time, it’s even louder. Shortly after, another random person joins in. Soon, more and more people around us begin to empty their lungs over and over again, gradually drowning out everything else, letting out all they’ve held inside—crying out like a pack of wolves howling at the moon. I can’t help but smile.
The chain reaction spreads quickly throughout the city, blanketing it in the unnerving resonance of a massive choir of dead men. Some scream words of joy, hate, and everything in between, while others simply let their voices blend into something bigger than themselves, one last time. I glance back at the man on the opposite roof. He’s clearly overwhelmed by the noise, pacing in circles, waiting for just one fleeting moment of courage to jump.
But the haunting chorus doesn’t last long. The city gradually falls back into a sorrowful silence.
I don’t hesitate. I yell at him:
- Our stories are still going. We still have the chance to make the most out of what we have.
I take a step closer to the edge of my roof.
- You’re right. We are all dead men. But look around. They’re living more now than they ever did before. Have you ever heard anything like this? Right now, every second of every life in this doomed city is worth more than it ever was. Dead men tell the best tales. This is your chance to truly live for the present.”