Short Story | The Voice of Beginning, The Breath of Ending

I hear the cry of a newborn baby. Waaah—with that tiny body, screaming out feelings that cannot be put into words with all its might, turning them into cries, trying to announce its existence to the world.

On another floor of the same hospital, an old man exhaled quietly. Inhale, exhale, inhale. He thinks, as if for the first time, that such a simple thing could be so heavy.

It’s fine now. I’ve been alone for a long time, anyway. My wife died early from alcoholism. I raised our two daughters by myself.

Inhale, exhale.

Working, coming home, taking care of the house. It should have been a dizzyingly busy life, but all I can remember are the things that were always lacking. My younger daughter dropped out of high school halfway through. To help pay for her sister’s college tuition.

Back then, I said nothing. I couldn't say anything. Inhale. —I can't inhale properly. I wasn't a great parent. That’s why I wanted to pass away without causing any trouble, at least at the very end.

Grandpa. —I hear a voice. Before I knew it, I had five grandchildren. Small hands keep pulling me back. That kindness hurts just a little bit right now.

Outside the window, it was the season of fresh green leaves. The leaves were sparkling, and the blue sky was dazzling, almost piercing to the eyes. In the distance, a baby is crying.

The voice of beginning.
The breath of ending.

Things that should never overlap are in the same air. The old man tries to inhale once more. I am watching over his back. As if layering it over that back that once went out to eat ramen with me. Just a little longer.

The End