The machines hummed softly. A lullaby of endings.
Michael lay still beneath thin white sheets, the hospital lights flickering above like distant stars. His breath was shallow now. A whisper. A flicker of something once vibrant.
He blinked slowly. The ceiling blurred.
No visitors. No family. Just him.
And the ticking of time—always counting down, never looking back.
He used to dream of beating it. Of walking out of this place with strength in his bones and purpose in his veins. But those dreams had dried up, just like everything else.
His family was gone. The blood disorder that took them had finally come for him too. And the world outside? It barely knew he was ever in it.
"I guess this is it," he muttered, his voice cracked and fading.
Not angry. Not afraid. Just… tired.
But beneath the numbness, something still burned.
A wish.
A prayer.
"I just wanted a family. Not by blood. Not by name. Just someone who'd miss me when I'm gone."
The heart monitor beeped slower.
One last breath. One last thought.
Please… don't let me disappear.
Let me matter to someone.
Let me belong somewhere… even if it's not here.
And then—silence.
Not cold. Not cruel. Just still.
Until something stirred in the dark.
A voice. A presence.
Not God. Not death.
But something older. Waiting.
> "Welcome, Michael."