Wings of Oblivion | Short Story

The sky visible from the hospital room window is slowly beginning to dye into a burning madder red.
I haven't touched the dinner tray the nurse brought. For me right now, the silence and the slanting light filling this room feel like much more luxurious nourishment than a meal to fill my stomach.
Long ago, someone said, "When people die, they ascend to heaven."
As a child, I believed that like a simple physical phenomenon. But as an adult, I learned that to ascend to the sky, one needs the appropriate 'qualifications.' Hatred, regret, attachment, and an overwhelming amount of memories—all of these become invisible weights that bind our souls to this earth.
I am currently discarding, one by one, the contents of a large trunk that has swollen during the journey called life.
The first things I let go of were my past professional achievements and the old medals called pride. The positions I tried so desperately to protect and the evaluations of others are no different from sand or dust when faced with death. As I took them out of the trunk, my body felt surprisingly light.
Next, I let go of the anger toward someone who had hurt me.
—At that time, I was told such things.
—I was betrayed in such a way.
Such memories had been sinking to the bottom of my chest like heavy stones, but as I exposed them to the red of the sunset shining through the window, they strangely blurred and vanished.
“...Ah.”
Suddenly, I could no longer remember the name of a dear friend. Even though I had called it so many times and shared drinks face-to-face, only the name slipped through the net of my consciousness. In the past, I would have lamented this forgetfulness as aging. But now, it is different.
This is a feather for the special wings that God gave me. Every time I forget a memory, one white, transparent feather grows on my back. Oblivion is not a cruel parting; it is nothing less than preparation for flying high.
I gaze at the trunk, where memories are being organized and it is nearing emptiness. There is very little left.
—The feel of a well-worn fountain pen.
—The smell of bread baked on a Saturday morning.
—That unique fragrance released by asphalt after the rain.
And one color that I cannot let go of, no matter what, until the very end.
I look outside the window. The red of the sky is deepening and beginning to melt into purple. Once, under this color, I held someone's hand. What that person's name was, I am no longer certain. What words we exchanged are now also in the mist. But the absolute premonition of 'being loved'—no, of 'having loved'—that I felt at that time, and the beauty of the sunset that spread out before me, are burned into the deepest part of my soul.
If I let go of even this, I will truly be free. Released from gravity, I will be able to go to that transparent, infinitely high blue place.
My consciousness is slowly fading. As my vision turns white, I feel the last feather overlap on my back.
The name of the person I loved, the red of the sunset—everything is melting into the light. I am now lighter than I have ever been.

—Goodbye, my heavy world that I loved.

I quietly took my first step outside the window, into the sky where the boundary line had vanished.

(End)

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