Speaker 1: The town I live in is small and quiet, the
kind of place where you know nearly everyone's name and
the sound of their voice. And here where life moves
slowly and everyone's path seems almost preordained. We have one
custom that's unlike any other, a certainty that's part of
our lives from the very beginning. From birth, each of
us is given a date printed on a small certificate
and signed by the town's doctor. It's the date we're
expected to die. Most of us accept it without question
and treat it almost like a birthday or a local holiday,
just the fact of life here in a town that
values tradition and stability. That's how it's always been. You're born,
you live, and you prepare for that final day when
it comes. Some people throw big last day parties or
take farewell road trips. Others like me, keep things simple.
The older you get, the more you find comfort in
the routine and the little things. I'm Ethan, forty five
years old, and my own death date it is tomorrow.
It's strange, perhaps, but I find myself calm about it,
at peace. Even I've had a good life here, a
good job at the library, a small but loyal circle
of friends and a family who loves me. I've always
known this day would come, and there's an odd kind
of relief in knowing it's finally here. There's nothing left
I feel I need to do so Tonight, the night
before my death, I'm going through the motions with a
quiet sort of dignity. I spent time with my family,
not wanting to make a fuss. I shared a simple dinner,
passed around old family albums, and laughed over the usual stories.
We toasted to a life well lived. Though I could
see the glint of sadness in my sister's eyes, I
reassured her with a small smile and a touch on
the shoulder. This is just how things are here. We
don't dwell on things, we don't overthink them. As the
evening deepens, I find myself sitting alone in my room,
boxing up sentimental odds and ends that had gone untouched
for years. An old watch from my father, a few
journals from my twenties, a dried bouquet from my high
school dance. Each one is a part of a life
that in a way feels complete. Now. There's no sense
of dread, just a sense of the inevitability of a
chapter drawing to a close as neatly as it began. Outside,
the town is settling down, the usual quiet settling in
as people close up shop, dim their lights, and ready
themselves for bed. I close my eyes and take a
deep breath, a final moment of reflection on everything and
nothing in particular in this town. Tomorrow, I think we'll
just be another day. I wake up with a start,
surprised to feel the morning light spilling across the bed.
There's a moment of disorientation as I lie there, still drowsy,
half expecting something else and after life, maybe, or even
a simple void. Instead, I feel the solid weight of
the mattress, the crisp sheets beneath my fingers, and the
smell of coffee drifting faintly from the kitchen. It's familiar, grounding,
and yet unexpected. I'm still here. I set up slowly,
heart pounding as I look at the clock six point
thirty two am, then my phone, just to confirm the date.
My death date printed and my certificate since I was
a child has come and gone. But I'm still here, breathing,
blinking in daylight. A wave of joy hits me unbidden,
like an electric surge. I'm alive. Somehow I've outlived the
date that was supposed to end my life. It feels miraculous, surreal,
a second chance. After pacing around in shock, I reach
from my phone and dull my sister. I hesitate thumb,
hovering over a name, unsure how to explain something I
barely understand, but I finally press call. My voice thick
with a mix of excitement and disbelief as I tell
her the news. At first, there was silence on the
other end. I hear a gasp and a shaky laugh.
She's thrilled, but a voice has a hesitant edge, hint
of something I can't place. But ethan how she whispers,
as if she's afraid to ask. I don't have an answer.
I laugh, assuring her I don't plan on looking a
gift horse in the mouth. Maybe it was just a mistake,
I say, though I can hear the doubt in my
own voice. My closest friends are equally baffled. When I
call them. Their responses a strange mix of joy and unease.
There's a disconnect in their laughter, a sense of uncertainty.
It's though I've broken a rule we've all lived by
that has never been questioned. I can't quite shake the
feeling that their joy isn't as genuine as I'd hoped.
That afternoon, still riding the wave of my own survival,
I decided to step outside, eager to reconnect with the world.
But as I walk through my yard, something peculiar happens.
I reach out to steady myself on a nearby tree trunk,
and the bark beneath my palms seems to lose its color,
fading to a dull, lifeless gray. I pulled my hand back,
shaking off the odd sensation, telling myself it's just the
dead spot on the tree. Later, I pick up my
old watch, the one my father gave me, the one
i'd packed away as a keepsake. The gold plating has
somehow lost its shine, dulled and tarnished in a way
it never was before. It strikes me as strange, but
I laugh it off, attributing it to its age. Still,
as I sit down to dinner, I can't ignore a
nagging feeling that something's off. The food seems to taste
a little bland, as if missing something. Objects around me
seem to have lost their usual warmth. The color around
me feeling subtly muted, but I brush it off, telling
myself it's just part of the adjustment. After all, I'm alive.
This second chance, whatever it is, is a gift, a miracle.
After the initial shock of survival wears off, life takes
on a new, vivid sharpness. I can feel the warmth
of every sunrise like its paint in my skin. Scenes
I took for granted before taking on a new meaning
of hope. Each morning, I wake up with a renewed energy,
savoring everything I'd once taken for granted. I thought my
time was up, and suddenly it wasn't. So I dive in,
determined to make the most of this uncharted time I've
been given. There are small things walking the trails just
outside of town which I'd neglected over the years, and
trying out recipes with an enthusiasm I never had before,
experimenting with spices just because I can. And there are
bigger things. I reach out to old friends i'd lost
touch with, join a few local clubs, and catch up
on every little dream that seemed out of reach. For once.
I feel like a man led out of a cage.
People around town notice, too, commenting on how I seem brighter,
happier than I am, but the brightness fades. Occasionally, I
begin feeling drained, nagging, exhaustion creeping in. No matter how
much I sleep. I'll be mid conversation with a friend
and feel like my thoughts are molasses, as if I
had to push my words out against a strong wind.
My surroundings grow dim, colors appeared just a shade darker,
and the air is subtly colder. It's subtle, like a
shadow creeping just out of sight. One evening, I head
to my sister's house for dinner. Excited to catch up.
She set the table with flowers, all brightly colored and fresh,
something she never does. But an hour into the meal,
her face looks pale, a little drawn, and she keeps
rubbing her temples, saying she feels unusually tired. The flowers
seem to wilt during our meal, petals curling at the edges.
She excuses herself early, and I leave, feeling unsettled. The
next time I visit, she opens the door slowly, greeting
me with a hesitant smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
She's more distant, her conversation guarded by the time I leave,
I feel a chill in my bones, like I walked
out of a freezer. The odd occurrences continue. Electronics around
me short out, flickering, then dying in my hands. My
old television set gives out with a loud pop one night,
the screen going black, then my microwave, the radio, even
my alarm clock all fail one after the other. At
first I thought it was just bad luck, but when
it happened to my phone, I couldn't ignore it anymore.
People too, started drifting away. Friends who were eager to
spend time together grow quiet, canceling plans or cutting conversations short.
They tell me they feel off or uncomfortable, fidgeting as
if they can't bear to stay near me. Even brief
interactions leave them looking tired, distracted, and eager to leave.
My sister stops inviting me over entirely, and when I
call her voice is distant, her words clipped. One day
I ran into an old friend, Joe at the Grosser store.
We chat for a few minutes, laughing over an old story,
but by the end he looks exhausted. There's a pallor
to his face, a sagging to his shoulders. He stammers
something about needing to get going, and I watch him
leave with a hollow feeling in my stomach. Back home,
things get stranger still. Food in my fridge spoils within days,
and fruit and vegetables turn soft and foul smelling, even
though they are well within their expiry date. I cook
a meal only to find it tasteless, no matter how
well I prepare it. Even the water from my tap
tastes stale and flat. Sitting in my silent living room
one evening, I feel a profound sense of isolation, a
silence pressing in like a weight. The plants droop in
their parts, the light flickers overhead, and a gnawing dread
settles deep in my stomach. I'm still alive, yes, but
something is deeply unnervingly wrong. As the days dragon, I
start avoiding people, embarrassed and afraid of the effect I
seem to have on them. My so called second chance
is becoming a curse, pushing everything and every one away
from me. The weight of what's happening settles over me slowly.
I've gone over every possible explanation, stress, coincidence, my own paranoia.
Still I can't ignore what's right before me anymore. The flowers,
my food, my friends. They're all affected. Everything I come
into contact with fates or dies, drained of its vitality.
One morning, as I stare at my reflection in the
bathroom mirror, I notice something unsettling in my own eyes,
a shadow, an emptiness. I look older, more haggard, and
my skin is paler. For a moment, I feel like
a stranger is staring back at me, someone unnatural, a
distortion of the man I used to be. I'm surviving, yes,
but at a cost I didn't choose and don't want
to accept. Desperate for clarity, I reach out to my
closest friend, Tom. He's been there through it all, steady
and reliable, a grounding force I need now more than ever.
When we meet, I can tell he's hesitant, his usual
ease replaced by an uncomfortable tension. Over coffee, I find
admit what's been happening, each word feeling heavier than the last. Tom,
I say, voice tight, have you noticed anything strange? Since? I? Well,
since I was supposed to the words trail off and
I watch his face carefully. To my relief, he doesn't
brush me off. Instead, he takes a deep breath, looking
almost relieved to be asked. Honestly, Ethan, I have, he says,
pausing as if weighing his words. It's hard to explain,
but I just feel different after seeing you. Things don't
feel right. It's like something's off, like you're off, almost
like you're out of sync with the rest of us.
The words hit like a punch to the gut, and
I can barely disgaze. But I couldn't help but appreciate
his honesty. So you're saying, I start, but he nods
before I can finish. Yeah, Ethan, I don't know how
to say this, but it's almost like you're not supposed
to be here. The silence between us is suffocating. I
feel exposed, like I've been laid bare. The last shred
of denial crumbles, and I realize that somehow surviving my
death date has made me something unnatural. I'm living unborrowed time,
but I didn't realize where I was borrowing it from.
Tom doesn't say much more, but our discomfort grows palpable.
He avoids my eyes, fidgeting with his hands, and finally
he stands, mumbling something about needing to leave. His face
is filled with a mixture of pity and fear, like
is afraid I might have taken more from him just
by sitting here. He doesn't look back when he leaves,
and I know deep down that I've lost him, my oldest,
closest friend. As he walks away, I feel a hollowness, settling, gnawing,
and cold. I don't just feel like an outcast. I
am one. Back at home, the isolation sets in. I've
been given this second chance, but seemingly at the cost
of every one and everything around me. My presence has
become toxic plants whither. My home feels more like a
crypt than a sanctuary, and the silence presses in on
me heavier than ever. Days pass, each one lonelier than
the last. I avoid everyone, neighbors, friends, family, and of
fear of what my presence might do to them. I
don't even open my windows, terrified of birds or stray animals,
anything living that might come close enough to feel the drain.
My house becomes a self imposed prison, a quiet place
where I exist in solitude, haunted by the life I'm
unintentionally living. What was once a miraculous second chance has
become a slow, consuming curse. I'd once looked forward to
each day, grateful for the unexpected time I'd been given.
Now I dread every moment, every step, every breath, wondering
how much I'll take from the world around me just
by being here. The days blur together, every hour more
suffocating than the last. I pace the length of my
small house, fighting against the weight pressing in on me.
I try to rationalize it. Maybe it's a psychological trick,
a dark corner of my mind manifesting this nightmare to
punish me. But I know it's real. Each time I
pass a mirror, catch the drawn hollows under my eyes,
or feel the oppressive quiet hanging heavy around me. My
presence is a poison, a drain on the life around me.
I can't stay. I can't keep letting this curse bleed
into the people I once loved. In a flash of desperation,
I decide to leave town and go as far away
as possible. Maybe distance will break whatever connection has turned
me into this thing. I throw clothes into a bag,
grab my keys, and shove open the door, practically running
to my car. But the escape doesn't come easy. The
car sputters to a stop barely two miles down the road,
the engine wheezing and coughing before it dies completely. I
sit there, slumped over the wheel, fighting the urge to scream.
I call for a toe, waiting under the heavy sun
as it drains the little energy I have. But the
driver who arrives seems put off. He barely looks at
me as he fixes the car, muttering something about my
bad luck. I brush it off, impatient, desperate. The repairs
hold just long enough for me to reach the edge
of town. I feel a moment of relief as I
see the highway stretch before me, endless away out of
this nightmare. But as soon as I try pull onto
the road, the car shudders, lurches, and dies once again.
It won't start back up. Defeated, I lock up and
start walking, determined to leave on foot if necessary. Hitchhiking, however,
proves impossible. Car after car whizzes, drivers looking at me
with a strange mix of pity and unease, their eyes
darting away when I catch their gaze. A boss pulls
up at a stop near the edge of town, but
the driver waves me off, barely glancing at me, muttering
something about not wanting trouble. It's like everyone knows somehow
that I don't belong. Hours pass and the hopelessness grows,
gnawing at me like a festering wound. By evening, I'm
back where I started, exhausted at the edge of town,
every attempt blocked by either mechanical failure or the strange,
unspoken refusal of others to help. It's like an invisible
force is binding me here, not with magic, but with
sick twists of fate. I stumbled back to my house,
shoulder slump, every step, feeling like a weight, pulling me
deeper into the earth. Inside, the silence greets me heavy,
hollow and suffocating. It's clearer than ever now there is
no leaving. I've exhausted every option, clinging to hope like
a man drowning. But hope has abandoned me, leaving only questions.
Questions I'm done living with, so I go to the
only person who might understand the impossible. The town's oracle
is a quiet, reserved woman in the seventies, rumored to
no secrets no one else dares speak of. She's lived
here as long as anyone can remember, her presence, a
fixture as familiar as the buildings themselves. People say she
can see the threads of life and death, and she
knows things about each of us that we could never
know ourselves. The air feels thick as I approach her home,
the last place I can go for any sort of clarity.
She answers the door before I even knock, as if
she's expecting me, and gestures for me to follow her.
Inside her home is dim, filled with the smell of
old books and faint incense. There's a stillness here, something
that feels eternal, as though time has no place in
her world. Please, I say, my voice cracking. You have
to help me. I need to understand. Why did I survive?
Why am I like this? My desperation spills out in
words that tumble over each other, jagged with raw need.
The oracle regards me with a quiet, unreadable expression. She
listens patiently, her eyes filled with a kind of ancient sadness,
as though she'd heard every version of this plea before.
After a long silence, she speaks, her voice low and steady,
almost like she's speaking to herself. Death. Dates are a
part of a balance here Ethan. Each date holds a purpose,
a thread in the fabric of life that keeps this
town steady. To survive beyond that, it's to unravel that balance.
By living past your time, you're pulling from the world
around you, feeding on the life that's meant for others.
You're not meant to be here. Her words are like
a slow, cold current washing over me. So I am
draining them. I whisper, barely able to keep my voice steady.
She nods, her expression unwavering. Yes, every moment you remain,
others in this town feel it. They lose pieces of themselves,
pieces that go to sustain you. That is the price
of escaping death. To live, you borrow, and you've been
borrowing from those around you, their vitality slowly siphoning into you.
A sick realization settles in, chilling me to the bone.
I felt the fading light in my friend's eyes, the
way they've grown weary, distant. I was right to feel
like a parasite, and this confirmation is a weight that
threatens to crush me. I lower my head, unable to
meet her gaze. Is there any way to stop it?
I manage the words barely more than a whisper. The
article studies me carefully, then not. There is one way
but it requires surrender. The only way to end this,
Ethan is to restore what was taken, to give back
the life you borrowed. You must accept your death as
it was meant to be, willingly, to let the balance
correct itself. The finality, and her voice sinks deep. I
thought so hard to stay alive, clinging to each second,
each breath, and now now I'm being asked to let
it go. I feel a strange calm settling in resignation,
mingling with a heavy sorrow that tugs in my chest.
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. I I understand.
She places a gentle hand on my shoulder, her touch
warm and grounding, and hands me a vial of liquid.
She didn't have to tell me what it was. Take
the time you need to say goodbye, Ethan. Then, when
you're ready, return to where you should have left. Leave
a house feeling lighter, yet burdened by a sadness that
words can't touch. This isn't just an ending now, It's
a choice, a sacrifice that holds more weight than anything
I've ever known. That night, I sat alone in my home,
pen and paper in hand, I write letters to those
I've loved the friends I've lost. I don't try to
explain everything, how could I. Instead, I apologize and offer
gratitude and love, hoping they'll somehow understand the heart behind them.
I write one to my sister, telling her I'm sorry
for everything I took from her, for the shadow I
brought into a life. Each letter is a small act
of surrender, a step toward letting go. When I finish,
I seal the envelopes and leave them on the table,
my last quiet gift to the life. I'm finally ready
to release. I close my eyes, the silence around me,
feeling less like a poison and more like peace. I'm
ready to restore the balance, to return what I've borrowed,
and to embrace the end as it was meant to be.
I stand at the threshold of my home, gazing over
the town one last time. I break open the vial
and Gulpert's contents. There's a quietness now, a stillness in
my mind that I haven't felt since this whole nightmare began.
As I stepped forward, the familiar streets seemed to blur,
fading into the first light of dawn. Each step raw
something out of me. A gentle and final release. I
feel the weight lift, like the burden I've carried is
finally letting go. Peace by peace. The air grows lighter,
as if the town is exhaling, filling with a life
I've held captive in my skin. I keep walking, the
drain growing deeper as I leave the last bounds of
the town. I barely feel the ground beneath my feet,
the final energy fragments slipping from me. As I cross
into open fields. My pull sloes steady and calm, each
beat softer than the last. Around me, the world settles
back into what it once was. The trees stand a
little taller, the light grows a little brighter, and the
quiet murmur of the town's waking out stirs to life
behind me. The sense of pressure I once drained from
the others feels restored and whole, as if my departure
was what the town needed all along. I glanced back,
catching the faint outlines of familiar places, and I feel
a wave of peace, knowing I'm leaving things as they
were meant to be. Faces flash in my mind, my
sister's laughter, Tom's quiet smile, the warmth of friends I
held dear They're safe, now, free from the pull of
my unintended curse. As my breath fades, I know I'm
no longer part of this world, but rather a quiet echo,
something gentle in the background. I linger only as a whisper,
a brief warmth felt by those I loved most, no
more than a faint memory, a reminder that I was
once here. And in this quiet surrender, I finally find peace,
restored to the balance of things as they were always
meant to be.