Should I save him?
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
No. Someone else should save him. Anyone but me.
But why? Just—why? Why was everyone standing around, doing absolutely nothing while a building burned down right in front of them? Inside, a kid was screaming for help. I could hear it. We could all hear it—the desperate, gut-wrenching cries for mercy. The sound dug into me, sharp and unrelenting.
And the fire—it would’ve reached him by now. How does it even feel, being trapped in there? Suffocated by heat and smoke, your skin blistering before you can even scream again.
What if it were me in there? Or worse—what if it were my child?
“Shit.” I swallowed hard.
"Somebody help him!" someone finally yelled, their voice cracking with panic.
"Call 911!" another cried out, their voice already drowned by the roar of the flames.
"Please, have mercy! He's just a kid! Someone save him!"
The crowd was restless, surging with panic but rooted in fear. No one dared to step forward, their eyes flitting from one another as if someone else would take the lead. They all knew what to do. But knowing wasn’t the same as acting.
And the worst part? I was no different.
Because yeah, I was scared too. Just as frozen as the rest of them.
image [https://static.vecteezy.com/system/resources/thumbnails/034/487/737/small_2x/gold-frame-page-divider-free-png.png]
Several days ago.
"They're the ones who shaped our world," I said. "We know them as successful figures, but we rarely see the sweat, tears, and sheer grit that got them there."
I let my words hang in the air for a moment. Most of the class wasn’t even pretending to be interested. A few students tapped away at their phones, some scribbled notes halfheartedly, and only a handful actually seemed to be paying attention.
"Some of these people went through relentless experimentation, rejection, and even depression," I continued. My voice remained steady, but I couldn’t help a small glance toward one girl sneaking a peek at her phone under her desk. Subtle. "So, can anyone give me an example of a historical figure who endured extreme hardship before they finally got the recognition they deserved?"
Dead silence.
I waited. Teaching had taught me patience. Or maybe I’d just grown stubborn enough not to fill the void myself.
Finally, a hand went up.
"Michael," I said, pointing at the student near the front. He wasn’t one of the few glued to their phones, and his hand had that hesitation.
"Uh, does Beethoven… count?" he asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.
I nodded. "Absolutely. Ludwig van Beethoven—one of the greatest composers in Western history. He faced plenty of failures and struggles before the world recognized his genius. Good example, Michael. Thanks for speaking up."
He sank back into his seat, looking a little more confident, though he kept his eyes on me like he expected me to call him out again.
For the next couple of hours, I went on with my lesson, diving into the lives of historical figures and their struggles. I wasn’t just dumping dates and names onto them; I made it a point to tie history back to something real, something they could walk away with. Call it inspiration, call it life lessons—I wasn’t just teaching history; I was teaching through history.
I loved it, honestly. Teaching wasn’t just a job; it was a responsibility—to shape how they saw the world and if I could help even one of them see it a little clearer, then I’d done my part.
After the discussion, I decided to take a short break before diving into prep for the next class in the teacher's office. My desk wasn’t much—a small, clutter-free island of sanity in a sea of chaos. I liked to keep it neat, though a stack of old research papers sat in one corner, the edges curled and the pages so faded they could’ve passed for relics from a bygone era.
“Haaa!” The door burst open, and I nearly jumped out of my chair as my co-professor barged in with a dramatic sigh.
“Rough first period?” I asked, leaning back and taking a sip of my lukewarm coffee.
“I can’t stand it, Cal. These students are driving me insane,” she said, slumping into the chair across from me. “How the hell do you even get through your discussions?”
I gave her a small smile, the kind that says, I’ve been there. “Patience. When I first started teaching, barely anyone paid attention. But as the days went on, more of them started to listen. That’s the trick—patience.”
She waved me off with a scoff. “Patience? Come on, Cal. You’ve got to push harder if you want them to listen. Heck, I’d confiscate their phones—smash ’em if I could.”
I just smiled again, not agreeing but also not bothering to argue. Instead, I turned my focus back to my coffee. The bitterness of the brew was easier to swallow than that line of thinking.
Still, her words lingered, scratching at the back of my mind. She wasn’t completely wrong—this school system was a mess. Constant budget cuts, an obsession with metrics over actual learning, and a bureaucracy that valued numbers more than meaning. It was frustrating, sure, but smashing phones wasn’t exactly going to fix it.
I shook my head and turned back to my notes. If nothing else, I could at least make sure my next lecture was worth listening to.
Knock. Knock.
The soft tapping at the door pulled my attention from the stack of papers already waiting to ruin my afternoon.
Creak.
“Professor Cal?”
I turned to see Michael standing awkwardly in the doorway, clutching another stack of papers. Because, of course, what I needed right now was more paperwork.
“Yes?” I raised an eyebrow, already bracing myself.
“These… uh, these are from Professor Green. He asked me to give them to you,” Michael said, holding out the pile.
Michael. A good kid, but way too anxious for his own good.
“Just drop them here,” I said, pointing to my desk.
He set them down, and I couldn’t help but grimace. This wasn’t paperwork—it was a test of endurance. Sign here, read this, stamp that.
As he turned to leave, I glanced up. “By the way, since you’re here, let me ask you something. You up for joining the quiz bee next week?” I asked, flipping through the first sheet in the pile without much enthusiasm.
There was a pause. A long one. Yep, he was shocked.
“Uh… quiz bee? I don’t know, Professor,” he finally stammered. “I don’t think I’d do well.”
I smirked, leaning back in my chair. “Oh, you’ll do well, all right. I’ll be your tutor, and trust me, we’re going to win.” I gave him a mock-serious pose, hands on my hips like I was announcing our victory before the competition even started.
He blinked at me, clearly unsure if I was joking or not. “Uh… thank you, Professor. I… I’ll do my best!” he said while bowing.
That startled me more than it should have. I reached out and gave his shoulder a reassuring pat, suppressing a laugh. “Relax, Michael. Focus on learning—I’ve got your back.”
He nodded, and as he walked out, I couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t every day a student took me that seriously, and honestly, it wasn’t the worst feeling.
image [https://static.vecteezy.com/system/resources/thumbnails/034/487/737/small_2x/gold-frame-page-divider-free-png.png]
As the day ended and my role as a teacher wrapped up, I found myself slipping into a different role—that of a student in my own home. Teaching might've been my job, but learning never really stopped for me.
I lived alone. My parents had died in a car accident years ago, and with no siblings to lean on, I’d gotten used to the silence. It wasn’t easy at first, but you learn to adjust.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
That said, I wasn’t entirely without company. One of my neighbors, an older woman, had a habit of checking in on me. She’d bring over food occasionally, insisting I share her cooking. Over time, she became something close to family.
Not that I was completely dependent on her. I could cook for myself, and I made a point of avoiding the trap of convenience store meals or takeout whenever possible. But tonight? Tonight, I was just too damn tired to bother cooking.
So, there I was, standing in the fluorescent glow of the local convenience store, plastic bag in hand and a wallet that felt a little lighter than it should.
At least the store was close to home. My house sat snugly in the middle of a cluster of apartments and commercial buildings. The area was surprisingly peaceful despite its central location, something I was grateful for.
"BRRROOOOM!"
The sound snapped me out of my thoughts, my focus toward the road. What the heck?
There, near the edge of the street, was a kid playing with a toy car, completely oblivious to anything around him. The orange glow of the sunset painted the scene in that almost surreal way, but all I could think was how unsettling it was to see a child playing alone in the street. If I were his parent, I’d probably be having a heart attack by now.
The kid couldn’t have been more than six years old, happily making engine noises as he zoomed his little car around in the ground. I kept walking, my eyes darting between him and the road, just in case.
Thankfully, before I could spiral into worst-case scenarios, I saw his mother sprinting toward him, her expression somewhere between panic and relief. Well, at least someone was paying attention now.
image [https://static.vecteezy.com/system/resources/thumbnails/034/487/737/small_2x/gold-frame-page-divider-free-png.png]
"Legacy," I said, my voice steady but my thoughts already spiraling.
"A lasting impact—something an individual leaves behind, shaping people or events, long after they're gone."
Legacy. The word lingered in my mind like an itch I couldn’t quite scratch. The truth was, all of us leave something behind when we die—good or bad. We might leave our family in shambles or give them a life they can thrive in. It’s an unavoidable truth. And honestly? That thought terrified me. No, let’s be real—it's my greatest fear. Will my life matter to these students? To anyone I cross paths with? Or will I just be another name lost in the blur of time?
“Albert Einstein, Marie Curie, William Shakespeare,” I continued, rattling off the names like a mantra. “We know them. And even though they’re long gone, we still remember. Why? Because they left something behind. A legacy that refuses to fade.”
I paused, letting the words settle in the room before continuing, my tone sharpening.
The room was quiet now, the kind of silence that hung heavy, like everyone was holding their breath.
“The clock is always ticking,” I said, my voice softer but no less firm. “And when it runs out, all that’s left behind is silence. The question is—what are you going to do with the noise you have left? Because the people we remember—the ones who left legacies worth talking about—they didn’t cling to permanence. They did what they loved, what they were great at. They pursued their passions, shouted their ideas to the world. And even now, even in death… they’re still alive, in a way.”
“You see history has a strange way of giving us second chances—though not always the way we expect.”
I looked out at the class, their faces a mix of curiosity and uncertainty. I didn’t expect answers. Just questions—questions they’d need to ask themselves long after the lesson ended.
Creak.
Several hours after the discussion, I found myself back in the teacher's lounge with a mug of coffee that was slightly better than lukewarm. Just barely.
“I heard your little speech earlier,” my co-teacher said, leaning against the counter. “Honestly, I was kind of inspired.”
“Well, that’s always good to hear,” I replied with a small smile, taking a sip of my coffee. It wasn’t great, but caffeine is caffeine. “How are your students doing?” I asked, steering the conversation away from myself.
She sighed. “I’m trying to be patient with them, but it’s hard. I’m not as optimistic as you, Cal. But, you know… I’m trying.”
"That's a great start," I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "Just keep at it, be patient, and you'll get there."
I started toward the door, hoping to leave before the exhaustion in my voice gave me away.
"Where are you going?" she asked, tilting her head.
Luckily, the department head had cut me some slack with an early leave, granting me a sick day. I’d managed to power through the lesson earlier, but my body wasn’t too thrilled about it.
"Sick leave," I replied, not breaking my stride.
image [https://static.vecteezy.com/system/resources/thumbnails/034/487/737/small_2x/gold-frame-page-divider-free-png.png]
I felt like I had a hangover. Which was ridiculous, considering I hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol. Maybe it was the lack of sleep—or the stress that came with managing a room full of semi-conscious students. Either way, I wasn’t at my best.
Still, I figured I could walk it off. Fresh air, a slow pace—it sounded like a decent plan at the time. But halfway through the trip home, I realized I’d seriously underestimated how bad I felt.
The world started to tilt. My vision blurred until I was seeing everything in double, and each step felt heavier than the last.
“Damn it,” I muttered under my breath, trying to steady myself. My legs wobbled, and for a terrifying moment, I thought I might actually hit the ground.
Even though I was still dizzy, I somehow managed to keep walking without face-planting. After a few minutes, the spinning stopped, and my vision cleared. The world finally looked normal again, not like some disorienting funhouse mirror.
Then I noticed something strange.
A handful of people were running—sprinting, really—toward the direction of my house. Their faces were tense, filled with panic. Worry, maybe? It was hard to tell.
“What the hell is going on?” I muttered to myself. Did I miss something? Or was this some weird hallucination brought on by how terrible I felt?
"Call for help!"
The voice cut through the air, sharp and urgent. It wasn’t the kind of shout you’d hear during a prank or a neighborhood argument. The last time I’d heard a voice like that, my parents were being dragged out of their car after the accident.
I quickened my pace, my earlier exhaustion completely forgotten.
"There's a child inside!" someone yelled, louder this time, their voice tinged with desperation. I was close now, close enough to hear the chaos clearly and see the crowd gathering at the end of the road.
"HELP!"
The voice was small but piercing—a child’s cry, frantic and pleading. My chest tightened as I rounded the corner and saw it: an apartment near my house, the second floor engulfed in flames.
Through the flickering blaze, a kid’s face was visible in the window, his cries carrying over the crackling fire and the murmurs of the crowd. His voice was raw, a mix of sobbing and screaming.
He was begging.
And everyone just stood there.
“How did he even end up there? Where are his parents?” murmured someone in the crowd, their voice low and unsure. Around me, most people weren’t even looking at the kid—they were busy pointing their phones at the fire, recording like it was some kind of show.
Someone save him.
Not me, though. I couldn’t. My mind was running a million miles an hour, and none of those thoughts were coherent. Someone braver, someone smarter—someone else—needed to step up.
But nobody did.
I looked around, hoping—praying—that someone would move. But no one did. Their fear mirrored my own, and it hit me like a slap to the face. If I didn’t do something, nobody would. And if nobody did anything… that kid was going to die.
“Fuck.”
My hands balled into fists as I forced myself to move forward. This wasn’t how my day was supposed to go. I’d just finished work, already feeling like hell, and now I was walking toward a burning building.
Fear gripped me, sharp and unrelenting, as if it had taken root deep within my chest. I couldn’t help it—my thoughts had spiraled to that place again, to the accident. My parents. The memory loomed like a shadow I couldn’t outrun, tightening its hold on me at the worst possible moment.
Even so, my feet moved. The kid was there, vulnerable and unaware of the danger closing in. The fear didn’t fade; it clung to me like a second skin. But beneath it, another force emerged—something steadier, stronger. A quiet resolve.
I didn’t want to act. I didn’t want to take that step forward. But I had to.
I could feel the crowd’s eyes on me as I stepped toward the door, their murmurs shifting into something like hope. The same people who wouldn’t move a muscle suddenly looked at me like I was some kind of savior. Their gratitude made me feel sick. I wasn’t some hero. I wasn’t doing this out of courage. It just felt like there was no other choice.
I felt like a lamb being sent to the slaughter.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The sound of my heartbeat pounded in my ears as I opened the door.
The fire hadn’t fully taken over yet. Flames licked the walls, but the worst of it hadn’t reached the ground floor. A staircase leading to the second floor was still visible through the thick haze of smoke. I didn’t know how long that would last.
The smoke hit me instantly, a suffocating blanket that clawed at my throat and lungs. I coughed, trying to steady myself as I looked up the stairs.
Cough cough. My throat burned as I covered my nose and mouth, trying to keep the smoke from choking me out. The acrid smell clung to everything, and each breath felt like swallowing hot coals.
Creak… creak…
The floorboards below me were groaning as they were about to give up and surrender to the fire. I had to move. Fast. I don’t even remember how I got to the second floor so quickly—it was all a blur of instinct and adrenaline. The kind that either keeps you alive or gets you killed.
The kid was still alive—barely. He was huddled on the other side of the room, surrounded by flickering flames but not swallowed by them. He was crying, and just staring at the fire. And yeah, I recognized him.
It was the same kid I’d noticed playing alone with toy cars.
I kept my composure, even as the flames crept closer, their heat pressing against my skin. My focus shifted to the boy—crying, panicked, and completely oblivious to the danger threatening to swallow us both. I needed to calm him down, to make him listen.
But then the fire wasn’t slowing down. It moved with a relentless speed, devouring everything. And time wasn’t on my side. I couldn’t afford to hesitate. Every second counted, and I had to act—now.
“HEY!” I yelled, waving one hand to get his attention while trying not to breathe in more smoke than necessary. “Can you run over here?” I pointed to the clear path between us. The flames hadn’t reached it yet, but they were creeping closer with every second.
His wide, teary eyes locked onto me, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if he’d move. But he didn't.
The kid didn’t move. Great. That meant I had to, or the fire was going to kill us both.
“Alright, hold on,” I muttered, crouching down to his level and grabbing him before he could bolt—or freeze up any more than he already had. He was lighter than I expected, which was good because the flames weren’t waiting for me to catch my breath.
“Where’s...Mo...mom?” he asked, his voice breaking as tears streamed down his face.
Oh, kid. That was the question, wasn’t it? I had no idea where his mom was. Maybe she’d made it out. Maybe she hadn’t. Either way, it wasn’t something I could deal with right now. He was my priority.
“Do you know where she is?” I asked, trying to sound calm despite the fact that we were literally in a burning building.
He shook his head, sniffling. “She.. said she...was going to...buy groceries.”
Well, that explained a lot. “Alright, then let’s go,” I said, hefting him up and adjusting his weight as I started navigating through the smoke and flames.
We were close. I could see the exit, taste the fresh air waiting just beyond the burning wreckage. Relief started to bubble up—but, the universe wasn’t done messing with me yet.
Out of nowhere, a chunk of burning wood came crashing down, hitting me square in the back. The force knocked me to my knees, and the heat scorched through my shirt like it was paper. Pain exploded down my spine, but I gritted my teeth and turned to the kid.
“You go,” I said, forcing a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. “Get out of here.”
The way he looked at me—wide-eyed and terrified—made me want to say something reassuring. But I didn’t have time for lies or heroics. All I could do was hope he’d listen and run.
The kid bolted toward the exit, still crying, and I could hear the noise outside—cheers, clapping, shouting. Relief for him. But for me? I was still here, still stuck in this inferno.
“Argh!” I yelled, more out of frustration than anything else, though the pain in my legs was quickly catching up. The flames had gotten to them, burning through the fabric and skin like it was nothing. I shoved the fallen wood off me, but before I could even catch a breath, more debris rained down from above.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I saved the kid, didn’t I? I got him out—alive. That should’ve been enough. But now, it felt like the fire had turned its attention on me.
“No... no,” I muttered, coughing hard as smoke poured into my lungs. Each breath felt heavier, slower, my body was shutting down piece by piece. I couldn’t even shout for help. The words were there in my head, but my throat wouldn’t cooperate.
More wood collapsed, pinning me down like I was trash waiting to be burned. The pain was... indescribable. Heat seared through my legs, my arms, my back, and the smell of my own charred skin made my stomach twist. I could barely tell what was pain and what was numbness anymore.
“You go on... do what you love.”
The words came from nowhere, faded but i can hear it. My father’s voice, echoing in my head. I could almost hear the warmth in his tone, but it felt like a cruel joke now.
“Help me,” I whispered, the words rasping against my throat as I tried to fight off the panic. I can’t die. Not here. Not like this.
But even as I thought it, the truth gnawed at me. I did what I had to do, didn’t I? I saved the kid. I lived my life—or I tried to. But there was so much I didn’t do. So much I held back. All the things I wanted, all the risks I didn’t take, because I was too cautious. Too afraid of failing.
I wanted to be brave, but now, lying here, trapped under burning debris, I realized... I was terrified.
“ARGH!” I screamed as fire caught in my hair, the heat blistering my scalp. I tried to move, but a sharp, jagged piece of metal had pierced through my leg.
And the fire just kept closing in.
Is this what my parents felt? Helpless, stuck in a moment where everything spiraled out of control, unable to stop it?
image [https://static.vecteezy.com/system/resources/thumbnails/034/487/737/small_2x/gold-frame-page-divider-free-png.png]
I was alone. Completely. The cheers, the clapping, the shouting—all of it had faded into nothingness. Silence wrapped around me, so thick it felt almost tangible. There was no light, no sound, nothing but pitch-black darkness pressing in from every side.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I didn’t feel pain. In fact, I didn’t feel much of anything. My body... well, I couldn’t even tell if I had one anymore. Weightless, detached—like I’d somehow been erased from existence.
Was this death?
The question floated through my mind as I tried to make sense of the void around me. Was this the end? Had I been punished or rewarded? Or maybe neither?
Then, faintly, I heard something. A sound that cut through the darkness like a single thread of light—wheels, creaking and groaning as they turned. A cart? A carriage? I couldn’t see it, but the rhythmic noise made my mind race.
Before I could figure out what it meant, more sounds trickled in. The chirping of birds, the soft rustling of leaves, the gentle hum of wind weaving through trees. It all felt... real. Too real. But I still couldn’t see anything.
And then, out of nowhere, light.
It wasn’t blinding, but it was sudden enough to jolt me out of whatever fog I’d been in. I blinked—or at least, it felt like I did—and the darkness gave way to a wooden ceiling swaying gently above me.
A carriage. I was in a moving carriage.
I'm confused. Wasn’t I just... dying? On fire? My body was burning to ash, and now here I was, lying in some old-fashioned wagon like nothing had happened.
As my thoughts spiraled, I glanced down—and froze.
Feet. Small, pudgy, impossibly tiny feet. I stared, trying to process what I was looking at, before moving one experimentally. The tiny foot rose, following my command, and I felt the faintest sense of resistance.
They were mine.
No. They couldn’t be. These were baby feet. Actual baby feet.
And yet, as I wiggled my toes just to be sure,
the truth was that....
They were literally.....mine.