Michael lay in a hospital bed, the rhythmic beeping of the ventilator his only companion. The sterile white walls seemed to close in on him, silent witnesses to his fading life. A priest leaned over him, his voice solemn and rehearsed. “Your family will be coming to see you off soon,” he said.


    But Michael knew the truth. This priest is paid by Father. He wouldn’t be coming. I’ll die alone. The thought didn’t surprise him. They had never cared for him in the beginning.


    As his vision blurred, his mind wandered. Is heaven real? Will I meet my parents there? The idea felt distant, almost absurd. But do I even want to?


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    The beeping slowed, each tone stretching longer than the last, until finally, it stopped.


    Michael’s consciousness drifted into a pure, dark void. A woman’s voice echoed in the emptiness, arguing with him. Her words were indistinct, lost in the void, but the emotion was clear—anger, frustration, sorrow. They argued and argued, until the void itself seemed to fracture, and all was white.


    In that final moment, Michael uttered a single word: “Family.”


    Then he fell—into snow, into nothingness. His name was gone.


    In that final moment, Michael uttered a single word: “Family.”


    Then he fell—into snow, into nothingness. His name was gone.