Ernest Light lay on his deathbed, the faint beeping of the medical machines around him almost drowned out by the soft murmurs of his children. His body was frail, the weight of his long life pressing heavily on his chest. Each breath was a struggle, shallow and labored.

He gazed up at the ceiling, feeling the coolness of the hospital air, but his mind drifted far from the sterile room. His vision blurred, and in the haze, he could see fleeting images of his past. His heart ached as he thought of his wife, her laughter echoing in his memories. She had always brought light into his life, and when she died, a part of him had died with her.

His son, Jacob, stood at his side, gripping his hand tightly. There was a tremor in the boy's—no, the man's—grip. Jacob had grown so much. "You've done so much for us," Jacob said, voice breaking.

Ernest tried to squeeze his son's hand in return, but his strength was failing. He wanted to tell him how proud he was, how he regretted not spending more time with him. But all that escaped his lips was a faint, rasping breath.

The faces of his children surrounded him. They were adults now, but in his heart, they were still the babies he had cradled in his arms. He could still remember the day Jacob was born. The overwhelming joy, the fear of being a father for the first time. It felt like yesterday. Now, here they were, all grown, about to say goodbye to him forever.

His daughter, Lily, stood quietly, tears streaming down her cheeks. She had inherited her mother's sharp features, but her smile, that was his. She bit her lip as she watched him, her eyes pleading for him to stay just a little longer. But Ernest could feel it—his time was slipping away.

"He's always been a hero," someone whispered from the edge of the room. A nurse, perhaps.

Ernest could barely make out the voices, but he understood the sentiment. His legacy. The work he had dedicated his life to. The energy-efficient recycling systems that had transformed the world. He had started small, tinkering in his garage, driven by the dream of a cleaner planet. Over decades, those ideas had grown into something greater than himself.

"He saved our city," another voice murmured. "No more pollution, no more hunger. His work gave us all a future."

Ernest's thoughts drifted to the first time one of his machines had been successfully implemented. He had been standing on the balcony of a new processing plant, watching as the machine roared to life. The city's skyline, once hazy and choked with smog, had begun to clear in the years that followed. It had been a small victory, but in that moment, he had felt invincible.

But now, at the end, it felt incomplete. His final project—his magnum opus—had been left unfinished. He had been so close. The key to unlocking perfect efficiency in recycling, converting all matter into pure energy, nothing wasted. It would have been his greatest contribution. He could see the blueprint in his mind, every gear and wire perfectly mapped out. But his hands could no longer build, and his mind could no longer guide.

Regret gnawed at him. He had spent so many sleepless nights in his workshop, so many hours lost to his obsession. He wished, more than anything, that he had more time. Time to finish his work. Time to say the things he never had the courage to say.

His body felt heavier. His breaths were coming slower now. He could feel the weight of every second, like sand slipping through an hourglass.

His eldest, Jacob, leaned in closer, his voice thick with emotion. "Dad... I just wish we could've seen that last invention together."

Ernest's heart ached. He had always wanted to show his children the full potential of his dreams, to make them proud. But now, he could only offer them the echoes of what might have been.

His daughter knelt beside him, tears wetting his hand. "We love you, Dad... We always have."

Ernest wanted to respond, to tell them that their love had been the most important part of his life. But his lips barely moved. He was slipping, falling deeper into the void, but he fought to stay a little longer. For them.

A wave of memories washed over him. His parents, long since gone, standing at the foot of his bed. Their faces were kind, as they always had been, but blurred, as though time had softened their edges. His father had been strict, but fair. His mother had been the warmth in his world, always encouraging him to reach higher, to dream bigger. He had tried so hard to live up to their expectations, and he hoped, in their eyes, that he had.

His wife's face appeared next. She was smiling at him, just as she had on the day they met, and again on the day she had walked down the aisle toward him. He felt the pang of loss deep in his chest. She had been taken from him too soon. Too soon. He had never quite recovered from that. He had buried himself in his work to cope, but now, as he lay dying, he realized that no invention, no amount of success, could ever fill the void she left behind.

"Dad," Lily's voice broke through the haze, soft but urgent. She held his hand tighter. "It's okay. You can let go now."

Ernest's breath rattled in his throat. He wasn't ready to let go, but his body had other plans. His vision dimmed, the faces of his children and the room around him fading into a soft blur of light and shadow. The edges of the world seemed to crumble away, leaving only a sense of weightlessness.

His chest rose, then fell. The struggle to breathe became unbearable. Every muscle felt weak, his body refusing to respond to his mind's commands.

"Thank you, Dad," Jacob whispered. "For everything."

The words barely reached him. His heart felt like it was slowing, every beat a distant echo. The last thing he felt was the warmth of his children's hands, their love surrounding him like a blanket.

And then, darkness. Cold, suffocating darkness.

Pain. A sharp, twisting pain. Ernest's body felt crushed, as though the weight of the universe had collapsed on him. His lungs burned, but he couldn't draw breath. His limbs were cramped, tightly bound by something he couldn't understand.

He panicked. He wanted to scream, but no sound came out. The pressure around him grew, squeezing the air from his chest. His mind swirled in confusion, the sensation overwhelming him.

Suddenly, there was a rush of cool air. His body jerked involuntarily, tiny and frail. His fingers twitched, brushing against something soft. He gasped, the cold air filling his lungs for the first time.

Ernest's mind reeled. The sensations were all wrong. His body... it didn't feel like his. His limbs were weak, uncoordinated. He couldn't move the way he wanted to, couldn't even open his eyes fully.

The warmth of hands cradled him, but they were not the hands of his children. They were bigger, unfamiliar. He tried to make sense of the chaos around him, but nothing made sense.

He had died. He was sure of it. So why could he still feel? Why could he still think?

Panic surged through him again. Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

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My first Original Work !

Hope you will like it :) Tell me if you do !