The screen flickered to life in a dimly lit room. The faint sound of static and the hum of an amplifier crackling to life broke the silence. A soft, rhythmic tapping started, almost like a heartbeat, followed by the faint, ghostly strum of guitar strings. The dim light of a single flickering bulb illuminated the scene.


    A hand appeared in the frame. Thin, trembling with a faint tremor, it adjusted the strings.The hand bore a long scar that ran from the base of the thumb to the wrist, jagged and pale against the musician''s skin. The scar seemed to tell a story all its own, a mark of pain and resilience etched into his very being—a reminder that some wounds never heal. The camera refused to show more than this hand and the guitar, as if the rest of the world didn’t matter anymore


    No face was visible. The camera stayed close, focusing on the guitar and the hands that played it, as though the music itself was the only thing that mattered.


    The melody began, haunting and fragile, each note hanging in the air like an echo. The strumming grew louder, more deliberate, as a haunting melody began to take shape. And then, the voice:


    "Hello there, my shadowed friend; you lingered in my mind.


    In this dance of life and death, you’ve left me intertwined.


    The echoes of your whispers claw deep into my soul.


    A symphony of heartache in the silence takes its toll."


    "I thought I knew who I was before the weight of time began,


    But now the mirror''s cracked, and all I see is someone I can''t understand."


    The voice cracked with emotion, raw and unfiltered, reverberating with years of unshed tears. It was a voice forged in the ashes of uncertainty, trembling but unyielding.The voice was raw, trembling with vulnerability yet resolute. The tempo shifted as the guitar strings were struck with increasing force, the melody becoming jagged and urgent, matching the tension that built in the air.


    "I walk through life like a ghost; nothing ever feels the same.


    I try to run, but I’m always pulled back to the same damn pain."


    "You tell me to keep fighting, but my body’s worn and weak.


    Every breath a hollow ache, every word too hard to speak.


    What’s the purpose of a journey that always ends the same?


    What’s the meaning of survival if I’m drowning in this pain?"


    The music slowed, every note lingering, drawn out like a breath held too long. The silence between each strum was deafening. It was as though the music was waiting for something to break. The voice softened, as if whispering into the void.


    "Maybe in this song, I’ll find the truth I’ve buried,


    Or maybe it''s just the silence, where my sorrow’s forced to stay."


    "But maybe there’s a reason in this broken, fleeting tune,


    A flicker in the darkness, a flower in the ruin.


    If I can sing my sorrow, let it echo through the void,


    Perhaps the weight of this regret can someday be destroyed."


    The tempo shifted again, exploding into a chaotic crescendo.The guitar picked up, frantic now, as if it couldn’t contain the emotion pent up in the voice. the sound raw and unfiltered.The words became a cry, a scream, an ache so profound that it broke through the melody itself.


    "But what’s the point of fighting when I’m just a shadow of who I was?What’s the point of trying when the end is never close enough?"


    And then everything stopped. The guitar fell silent, the screen blank for a heartbeat. The hand that had been so steady moments ago now hung limp. In that silence, the weight of years seemed to press down on the figure in the shadows. The screen flickered once more before cutting to black.


    Roy Sato clicked “Upload” with shaking hands, his breath catching in his throat. He leaned back in the chair, his chest tight with a mixture of relief and dread. The song, ''The Last Song,'' was live now—his soul laid bare for the world to see. For a moment, he stared at the scar on his hand, the one that never seemed to fade.  Tracing its jagged path with his fingers. It had been years since he’d gotten it—a stupid accident in the kitchen, or so he told himself. But sometimes he wondered if it meant something more.


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    The video was already getting views. A mix of nervousness and exhaustion washed over him as the comments began to roll in. They felt distant, meaningless. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the words—they just couldn’t reach him anymore. As he glanced at the comments rolling in:


    "This hits different. Are you okay?"


    "The raw emotion in this is unreal."


    "Whoever you are, don’t stop making music. The world needs this Mr LastHope."


    "This song speaks to me."


    Suddenly, a surge of memories overwhelmed him. The space station. The black hole. The feeling of everything being torn apart. The cold, the darkness. Roy gasped, clutching at his chest as his heart raced.


    The rawness of it all hit him like a wave. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but he didn’t type anything. Instead,  he closed his laptop and lay back on his bed, and sat in silence, staring at the ceiling. His mind wandered, searching for meaning.


    The words were kind, but they felt hollow. What did it matter? He was running out of time.


    Suddenly, a surge of memories overwhelmed him. The space station. The black hole. The feeling of everything being torn apart. The cold, the darkness. Roy gasped, clutching at his chest as his heart raced.


    “No,” he whispered.


    He stumbled to his desk, knocking over papers, desperately seeking a mirror. His reflection was hollow, a stranger''s face staring back at him. But its him. Thin, gaunt. The scar on his hand—unchanged. But his face... it wasn’t quite the same. There were differences—slight, almost imperceptible at first—but they were there. This was not the Roy he knew but looks similar. Not entirely though.


    The remnants of another life flickered beneath the surface, traces of someone who had lived and died 3 times so far. An average Highschooler, A Scientist , A Cyberhacker and now a Musician, yes. But someone who had been on the brink of something, but never quite reaching it. A man who had walked through 3 versions of himself, each one leaving an imprint, yet none of them truly his.


    Slowly, Roy picked up details of himself in the mirror.


    But the questions still lingered.


    What did it mean to truly live, when your past was always clawing at you?


    What did it mean to leave a mark, when time would erase everything?


    And what did it mean to be alive, when you felt like you were already gone?


    The silence in the room pressed down on Roy, thick and suffocating. He barely noticed the soft padding of footsteps from the hallway until the door creaked open.


    "Roy?" A gentle voice called, breaking the stillness. "Are you alright?"


    Roy froze, his gaze still locked on his reflection. His mind was still trapped in the storm of memories, those other lives that bled together in a blur. He didn’t know what to say—what to feel. The stranger staring back at him seemed so far removed from the person he once was. Or maybe he was always this way.


    His mother’s voice pierced the fog of his thoughts again, softer now, with concern. "Breakfast is ready, hon. You need to eat before you head to school."


    Roy blinked, pulling himself out of his daze. He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the weight of everything. His chest still ached, his heart still raced, but he didn’t want to burden his mother with any of it.


    “Yeah,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. “I’m fine.”


    His mother hesitated for a moment, then entered the room fully. She stood by the door, watching him carefully, her eyes filled with a softness he couldn’t bear to meet. "If you need to talk, I’m here; you know that, right?"


    Roy nodded, though he didn’t really know if that was true. It was hard to explain what he was feeling—or if there was even anything to explain. Maybe it was better to pretend, to say nothing and go on like everything was normal. He had been doing it for years.


    "I’ll be down in a minute," Roy said, forcing a weak smile, though it felt more like a mask than anything genuine.


    His mother didn’t push. Instead, she gave him a small nod, her lips pressing into a thin line of quiet worry before turning to leave the room. The door clicked softly behind her, and for a moment, Roy was left alone again with his thoughts.


    He stood there, staring at his reflection once more, the questions swirling, the pain clawing at his insides. His face, the same, but not the same. His hands trembled as he traced the scar on his wrist again, the jagged reminder of everything that had come before.


    “Maybe in this life,” he whispered to the empty room, “I’ll find the answer.”


    With a heavy sigh, he forced himself to move, walking out of the room and heading downstairs, the familiar scent of breakfast in the air. It was the same, like everything else. But somehow, it all felt different.