A year earlier.
The explosion hit before I even understood what was happening.
Heat. Pressure. Pain.
Then nothing but cold.
I died.
—or I should have.
Because the next thing I felt…
was water filling my lungs.
People react differently in critical moments—fear, panic, confusion.
I feel none of that.
Only one thought:
Will anyone be saddened by my death?
My family will grieve. Of course.
But anyone else?
Colleagues. Acquaintances.
The guy I finally agreed to go on a date with.
I don't want to disappear unnoticed.
I want to be remembered.
But for what?
There it is—the regret in my final moments.
I leave nothing behind.
No one.
I'm just one of millions who lived and vanished unnoticed.
No fear. No anger.
Only regret—
and a desperate need to live.
Just minutes ago, I thought my life was only beginning, that I still had plenty of time ahead.
I never stopped to think about leaving a mark on history—or even in the hearts of a few people.
I'm only thirty, and all I've done so far is drift quietly along with the current.
Now everything around me is fading.
My hearing fades.
My body goes numb.
Only the cold remains.
God… it's so cold.
Even as a child, abandoned at a bus stop for hours—
I never felt anything like this.
I remember that cold.
And the fear.
I was five. Maybe younger—I don't remember exactly.
But compared to what I feel now—
that cold was nothing.
This cold is inside me.
I'm dying.
I know it with absolute clarity.
My body has gone numb, my senses are barely picking up sound, smell, or light—but my mind is sharp.
And still—
I feel no fear.
Acceptance? Maybe.
But damn it—
I don't want to die.
I want to live.
So why am I not afraid?
There are people around me—medical staff.
They're still fighting for my life.
They really are trying… and it won't change anything.
The blurred world around me darkens further.
The faint sounds, as if from beneath water, fade completely.
All that remains is this terrible cold.
And I think I'm getting used to it.
Is this how my life ends?
Why?
Why do I have to die?
There's so much I haven't experienced yet.
Damn it, I didn't even confess my feelings to the guy I was rushing to meet today.
I hope he was late, like always—
otherwise…
otherwise he might be in the same situation.
Or worse.
No.
He was late.
I'm sure of it.
How long have I been lying here?
Have they stopped using the defibrillator?
Why can I still think so clearly?
Hey! Someone!
Useless.
I can't feel anything but the cold.
I can't see.
I can't hear.
Am I dead?
Is this a coma?
Damn it, why isn't there some kind of manual for dying?
How am I supposed to understand what the hell is happening to me?
And even now—
I'm not afraid.
I'm irritated.
Let something—anything—happen already!
How long am I supposed to stay in this strange, suspended state?
Suddenly—
I feel my body again.
Something is wrong.
It's as if something is pulling me downward.
I jerk my eyes open—
then shut them again.
My lungs burn from lack of oxygen.
How did this happen?
Why am I in water?
I can't swim!
My attempts to reach the surface fail.
It's almost laughable—to come back to life only to die again.
Instinct takes over.
I open my mouth to gasp for air—
but instead, water floods my lungs.
Now my mind is no longer clear.
I open my eyes one last time and see a vague silhouette—someone reaching toward me.
Then—
darkness.
"Álan!"
A woman's voice calls.
"Alan, my boy!" she cries, her voice breaking.
So I'm not alone here.
Poor woman.
Her son—or grandson—must be dying nearby.
I feel strong pressure on my chest.
Then I'm suddenly flipped over, and water pours out of my mouth.
I inhale—coughing, gasping, trying to draw in more air—
but my burning lungs resist.
A few ragged breaths later, I open my eyes.
My vision is blurred with tears from the coughing and pain.
Above me is a hazy silhouette—
and behind him, a woman, sobbing, still calling for Alan.
Keeping my eyes open is too difficult.
I let them close—
and slip back into oblivion.
The next time I wake, I'm still soaked, but the cold wind no longer bites at me.
I'm indoors.
Someone is peeling the wet clothes from my body, wiping me down with something warm, dressing me in dry, soft fabric.
Hands lift me—by my arms and legs—
and carry me to a bed.
God…
this mattress is so soft.
Do hospital beds even feel like this?
It's more like a featherbed—warm, comforting, almost lulling me back to sleep.
My mind begins to drift again.
"He's very lucky to be alive," a distant voice says.
"Your son was in the water for a long time. It's a miracle he's still breathing. I can't guarantee that his brain or organs…"
A pause.
"In any case, Lady Holivan, let's not jump to conclusions. We'll wait for the chief physician. Once he examines the boy, we'll know more."
"My boy…" the woman sobs, and a warm, trembling hand touches my cheek.
Boy?
Are they… confusing me with someone else?
Sure, my hair is short, and my clothes aren't exactly feminine, but come on—
you just undressed me.
What do you mean "boy"?
A surge of indignation gives me strength.
I manage to crack my eyes open slightly.
The hand is gone.
Standing beside the bed is a slender dark-haired woman in a flowing sky-blue dress.
Next to her is a man in a loose white shirt and trousers.
My eyes close again.
My mind begins to sink back into sleep.
Something is wrong.
How did I end up in the water?
I was in the theater lobby, waiting for Steven, when deafening explosions rang out.
A second later, a blast of heat hit me, throwing me against a wall and pinning my lower body beneath debris.
I remember screams.
Crying.
The smell of gunpowder and blood.
My limbs had already gone numb, but I held on until the rescuers arrived.
There wasn't even a fountain near the theater.
And as far as I remember, they hadn't managed to get me into an ambulance—they were trying to revive me right there.
I died, didn't I?
So how did I end up in the water?
And who are these people?
My thoughts swarm like annoying gnats—
but I can no longer focus on any of them.
Letting the chaos go, I slip back into sleep—
hoping that when I wake again, I'll have more strength…
and more time.