CH11 The Ghost History Part 1

It was hard to handle so many expectations from other people, especially your parents. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I cried in frustration, it was always the same— never enough. Not enough to make them proud, not enough to please them.

I remember those days vividly now, though I had pushed them far down for so long. I was just a child, but the weight of their expectations felt like a mountain on my shoulders. Everything had to be perfect. My grades, my behavior, my performance in everything I did—perfection was demanded, and anything less was met with disappointment.

I hated it.

The constant pressure, the feeling that nothing I did mattered unless it met their impossible standards. It was suffocating. There was no room for mistakes, no space to just be a child. And slowly, I started losing parts of myself in trying to become what they wanted.

Being the daughter of a wealthy man had its perks—at least, that’s what people thought when they looked at me from the outside. The lavish parties, the private school, the expensive clothes. But no one saw the weight of the expectations I carried every day. The pressure was suffocating, especially from my father.

My father wasn’t just any businessman. He was the assistant director of one of the largest companies in the country. His name carried weight in every circle he walked into. And for him, everything was a competition—especially among his colleagues. He was determined to become the director, and for that, everything in his life had to reflect perfection, including me.

But to him, I wasn’t his daughter. I was his successor. He didn’t care about my feelings, my dreams, or what I wanted for myself. Every conversation was about my studies, my achievements, my future. He wanted me to be flawless, the perfect reflection of his ambitions.

I remember sitting at the dinner table with him, and instead of asking how my day was, he would talk about how the children of his colleagues were excelling—perfect grades, prestigious awards, and scholarships. It wasn’t subtle. I knew what he was doing. Every time he spoke, it was like a reminder that I wasn’t good enough. Not yet.

He used to say, "In this world, Mika, there’s no room for weakness. If you want to stand out,

you need to be the best. Do you understand?"

I understood all too well. But I couldn’t keep up with his expectations. No matter how hard I studied, how much I pushed myself, it was never enough. The pressure to be the best, to never make a mistake, crushed me.

I started feeling like a project to him, not a person. And the more I tried to please him, the more I lost pieces of myself.

My mother was my saving grace. While my father pushed me toward perfection, she was the one who allowed me to be a child, to feel free—even if only for a short while. She would sneak me out of the house when my father wasn’t home, and we’d go to the park, where I could

breathe. I think she knew how much I was struggling under my father’s expectations. She came from a simple family herself, so she always appreciated the little things—playing outside, walking in the park, and enjoying life without all the pressure.

One day, we were at the park, just the two of us. I remember sitting on a bench, clutching my mother’s arm, when I noticed a group of kids around my age playing nearby. I was always a bit shy around other children, unsure of how to approach them, but that day was different.

One of the kids broke away from the group and came over to me. She had short, messy hair and the biggest, brightest grin I’d ever seen. I was frozen for a moment, clinging to my mother as if she were the only thing keeping me grounded.

"Heyo! What's your name?" the girl asked, her voice full of energy and curiosity.

I blinked, taken aback. No one had ever approached me so openly before. "Uhmm... It’s Mika," I

stammered, feeling my cheeks flush with embarrassment.

"Nice to meet you, Mika! I'm Saki!" she introduced herself, her cheerfulness infectious. "Do you want to play with us?"

I hesitated. I’d never played with other kids before, not like this. My life had always been about lessons, tutors, and being prim and proper. But then I felt my mother’s gentle hand on my shoulder.

"Go on, Mika," she encouraged, her voice soft and reassuring. "It’ll be fun."

She let go of my hand, and in the next moment, Saki’s hand was in mine, pulling me toward the other children. I glanced back at my mother, and she gave me a warm smile, nodding for me to go ahead.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn’t afraid of being judged. I wasn’t thinking about my father or the expectations that weighed on me. I just ran with Saki, laughing as we joined the other kids. It was a small taste of freedom, and I cherished it.

As the days turned into months, Saki and I grew inseparable. Our time at the park became the highlight of my days. No matter how demanding my life at home was, I knew that those moments with Saki were my escape, my sanctuary. We would play for hours, losing ourselves in laughter and games until it was time to go home.

As we approached the end of elementary school, the weight of reality began to press harder. My days of unrestrained play and freedom were drawing to a close. The pressure from my father was only going to increase as I moved on to the next stage of my education. It was a sobering thought, and the park, once a place of pure joy, began to feel like a sanctuary I would soon have to leave behind.

To commemorate our friendship, our mothers decided to take a picture of us in front of the big tree where we had spent so many happy hours. It was meant to be a celebration of our bond, a lasting memory of our carefree days.

Saki stood beside me, her smile as bright as ever, her eyes sparkling with the joy of the moment. She looked so happy, so full of life. I, on the other hand, couldn’t hide the sadness I felt. I tried to put on a brave face, but it was hard. The thought of leaving this behind, of not being able to run and play with Saki anymore, weighed heavily on me. I knew that soon, the carefree days of playing in the park would be replaced by endless hours of study and the pressure to meet expectations.

The camera clicked, capturing a moment that was bittersweet for me. Saki’s bright smile and my more serious expression would forever be a reminder of the innocence we were leaving behind. Even though I tried to be strong, my heart ached with the knowledge that the days of untroubled freedom were slipping away.

Saki and I were determined to hold on to the magic of our childhood, even as we faced the reality of growing up. We decided to create a time capsule, a promise to our future selves that we would always remember the joy and freedom of these moments.

“Here! I brought the box as I promised,” Saki said, holding out a small, weathered container. I nodded and handed her the photo we’d agreed to include. It was a cherished memory of us

standing by the big tree, a symbol of the countless hours we had spent together. We added some bracelets and other small treasures, each item holding a piece of our childhood.

Our mothers watched with smiles, clearly pleased with our effort. We then began to dig beneath the tree with a small shovel. The task was a bit challenging, but we were determined to find the perfect spot. After digging to a certain depth, we carefully placed the box into the hole.

“Hey Mika,” Saki said, her voice filled with earnestness as she held out her hand, now covered in dirt. “Promise me we’ll be together as always. We’ll open this box when we’re adults. Pinky promise?”

I looked at her, seeing the sincerity in her eyes, and reached out my own dirty hand. “Yeah,” I

said softly. We interlocked our pinky fingers, sealing our promise.

The gesture felt both significant and comforting. Despite the challenges ahead, we had this tangible symbol of our friendship and the future we hoped to share. It was a small act of defiance against the pressures of the world, a promise to hold on to the bond we had forged.

As we covered the box with soil and patted it down, I felt a mixture of sadness and hope. We were on the brink of a new chapter in our lives, but this moment was a reminder of the unbreakable connection we had.

Fortunately, Saki and I both ended up in the same high school, a private institution known for its rigorous academic programs. For me, transitioning into high school was relatively smooth. My father had arranged everything, and I stepped into the new environment with a sense of inevitability, as if my path was already laid out before me.

Saki, on the other hand, faced a different struggle. She worked tirelessly to earn a scholarship, juggling part-time jobs and late-night study sessions. It was admirable, but I could see how it wore her down. Despite our shared history, our paths diverged significantly.

We managed to keep in touch and hang out occasionally, though these moments became rarer as time went on. Saki was surrounded by new friends and involved in various activities, leaving little room for our old routines. Meanwhile, I was enveloped in my own world of advanced subjects and preparatory courses that my father insisted I excel in. The workload was overwhelming, and I often found myself turning down invitations from classmates who wanted to befriend me.

My days were consumed by relentless study sessions, leaving me isolated from the social aspects of high school. I couldn't understand why I needed to delve into such advanced topics, and the lack of free time left me feeling more disconnected. It was a peculiar and lonely existence, a stark contrast to the freedom and joy I had once shared with Saki.

And as if my own struggles weren’t enough, a scandal erupted that shattered the fragile

stability of our family life. Rumors spread like wildfire about my father having a mistress, and suddenly, the house that once felt like a sanctuary now felt like it was burning down from within.

The atmosphere in our home became suffocating, a palpable weight that hung over every room. The maids and household staff, who were once the picture of professional decorum, now whispered among themselves with a mixture of pity and judgment. Their hushed conversations and furtive glances were like shards of glass, constantly reminding me of the turmoil that had engulfed our lives.

My mother, the person who had always been my pillar of strength and the source of my rare moments of happiness, was devastated. Her radiant smile, which had once brightened even the gloomiest days, was now a distant memory. The sparkle in her eyes was replaced by a veil of sadness and disappointment. She retreated into herself, her vibrant presence dimming with each passing day.

The nights at home grew increasingly tumultuous. My father would return, and the evenings were marked by heated arguments that reverberated through the walls. The sound of their voices—once a background hum of everyday life—had turned into a cacophony of blame and accusations. Their once harmonious interactions were now fraught with hostility, and their banter had devolved into bitter exchanges. It was as if every word spoken was another blow to the already fragile structure of our family.

I would often retreat to my room, closing the door behind me as if to shield myself from the discord. The walls of my sanctuary seemed to close in, making me feel isolated and helpless. I could hear the muffled sounds of their quarrels through the thin walls, and it felt like an invasion of my private space. Each argument felt like a personal assault, a reminder that the stability I had once taken for granted was slipping away.

My father’s absence during these turbulent times only served to deepen the rift between us. His long hours at work or his frequent absences became an escape from the domestic chaos, leaving my mother and me to navigate the wreckage of our family life alone. The façade of our perfect life was crumbling, and I was caught in the wreckage, trying to make sense of the chaos and find some semblance of normalcy amidst the upheaval.

In the midst of all this, I felt lost. The academic pressures I faced seemed insignificant compared to the emotional turmoil at home, yet they weighed on me heavily, as if adding another layer to my already burdensome existence. My days were a blur of lectures, advanced subjects that I struggled to comprehend, and fleeting moments of solitude. The few times I managed to meet with Saki felt like a rare escape from my grim reality, but even those moments were

overshadowed by the constant shadow of my family’s crisis.

The contrast between my previous life and the present reality was stark. The freedom and joy I once experienced seemed like a distant dream, replaced by a harsh and unyielding reality. I was left to grapple with the dissonance between the person I had been and the person I was becoming, struggling to reconcile the innocence of my past with the burdens of my present.

Each day felt like a struggle to keep moving forward, to maintain some semblance of normalcy despite the chaos surrounding me. The weight of my father’s scandal, my mother’s heartbreak, and my own academic pressures bore down on me, making every step forward feel like a monumental effort. In the midst of it all, I clung to the memories of simpler times, hoping that somehow, I could find a way to navigate through the storm and emerge on the other side, carrying with me the strength and resilience I so desperately needed.

Then my friendship with Saki began to sour, and I felt the sting of betrayal more sharply than I had ever anticipated. The once unshakeable bond we shared started to fray, and the reasons were rooted in the turmoil that had overtaken my life and hers.

I had always known that Saki harbored feelings for a certain guy. She would gush about him whenever we hung out, her eyes lighting up with excitement as she spoke of his charm and how manly he was. He was popular, good-looking, and everything she admired. I enjoyed hearing her stories; they were a rare source of joy for both of us, a break from the relentless pressures of our lives. Seeing Saki so animated and full of life made me genuinely happy for her.

Then, one day, everything changed. I was heading to my preparatory class, lost in my own thoughts, when I happened to pass by a group of boys chatting. Among them was the guy Saki had always talked about, and I overheard a conversation that would shatter my perception of everything.

Saki’s name came up, and my ears pricked up involuntarily. I tried to focus on the chatter

around me, but the words that followed pierced through the ambient noise like a dagger.

“Saki? The one who has a crush on me?” The guy said, his voice dripping with a condescending tone. “Nah, she’s not my type.”

I froze, my heart pounding as I continued to listen. My fists clenched at my sides, my knuckles turning white.

“Oh, but you were always together,” one of the boys said, trying to piece together the

narrative.

“Yeah, I was just toying with her, you know?” The guy replied with a dismissive shrug. “Past time.”

The words felt like a brutal slap to the face. The anger bubbling inside me was fierce and raw. I wanted to lash out, to confront him and make him understand how much pain he had caused. The very thought of him, so callously dismissing Saki’s feelings, made my blood boil. I imagined the satisfaction of punching that smug face, seeing his pretty looks marred by the reality of his cruelty.

I took a deep breath, struggling to calm the storm within me. The rage made my vision blur as I walked away from the scene, trying to push the anger down. It was a struggle to keep my emotions in check, to not let the fury consume me.

As I continued to my class, the weight of what I had heard settled heavily on my shoulders. The image of Saki’s hurt face, the disillusionment of her idealized image of the guy she had admired, played over and over in my mind.

I have to tell her, I said to myself, determined to share what I had heard. I contacted Saki, and we agreed to meet at our usual café.

When I arrived, I found her already seated, her demeanor upbeat as always. We exchanged pleasantries before I took a deep breath and recounted the conversation I had overheard. I told her everything, how the guy she admired so much had dismissed her feelings and even admitted to toying with her.

To my dismay, Saki's reaction was not what I had hoped for.

“Why? Mika? Why do you have to tell lies to me?” Her voice was sharp, her eyes filled with disbelief. “He is a good guy, not some sort of bastard!”

Her words hit me like a slap. I tried to explain, to make her see the truth I had witnessed. “No, I’m not telling lies. I just wanted you to know so you wouldn’t get hurt any longer.”

But my words seemed to make things worse. Saki’s face flushed with anger. “No! No! He’s not like that. I hate you, Mika!” she yelled, her voice echoing through the café.

Before I could respond, she stood abruptly and dashed out of the café, leaving me alone amidst the shocked stares of other patrons. I felt a surge of humiliation and sorrow as their gazes bore into me. I wanted to sink into the floor, to disappear from the spotlight that now seemed unbearably bright.

The pain in my chest was almost physical, a deep ache that mirrored the torment I felt watching Saki's reaction. I had tried to protect her, to warn her of potential heartbreak, and yet, it seemed I had only succeeded in driving a wedge between us.

Sitting there, I could only think of how our friendship, which had once been a source of solace and joy, was now fraught with tension and hurt. The tears I had fought to hold back finally began to fall, mingling with the frustration and sadness that weighed heavily on me. I felt a deep sense of failure, unable to bridge the gap that had formed between us, and helpless in the face of Saki’s pain and anger.

It had been days since the quarrel with Saki, and I hadn’t been to school since that day. I shut myself off from the world, staying in my room with the curtains drawn. The weight of my failure, both in protecting my friend and living up to my parents' expectations, felt unbearable. The days blurred together in a haze of despair and disillusionment.

One evening, as I sat listlessly in my room, the muffled sounds of a rock band played on the radio. I wasn’t even sure how it had come on; perhaps it was the static of random channels. The energetic beats, the powerful guitar riffs, and the thundering drums seemed to cut through my gloom like a bolt of lightning. The music resonated with something deep within me, a spark that had been dormant for far too long.

I found myself drawn to the rhythms, captivated by the raw energy of the drums. There was something cathartic in the pounding beats, something that spoke to my frustrations and my longing for escape. I watched videos of drummers performing with such intensity and skill, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I felt a flicker of hope.

Drumming became more than just a distraction; it was a revelation. It was a way to channel my emotions, a means to reclaim some sense of control in my life. I imagined myself behind a drum kit, lost in the rhythm, each beat a way to release the pent-up anger and sorrow. I could picture myself becoming a drummer, a musician who poured every ounce of pain and joy into the music.

With this newfound passion, I decided to take a step forward. I researched local music schools, looking for places where I could learn to play the drums. I felt a glimmer of determination, a sense of purpose that had been missing from my life. Even though I was still dealing with the fallout from my argument with Saki and the fractured state of my own world, the idea of becoming a drummer gave me something to work towards, something to aspire to.

I started heading out in my school uniform, hoping to avoid suspicion from my father. His eyes were always sharp, and he seemed to notice everything. My mother, meanwhile, was often out with friends, her whereabouts shrouded in mystery. I couldn’t help but wonder where she was spending her time.

My destination was the local music studio, a place that had quickly become my sanctuary. I carried my music walkman, filled with the edited songs I had been working on. The studio was a haven where I could pour out my emotions through drumming. Each beat of the drum became an outlet for my frustration, sadness, and longing.

The moment I stepped into the studio, I felt a surge of freedom. I put on my headphones and immersed myself in the music. My heart raced as I synced with the rhythms, tapping the drums with increasing intensity. The beats became a cathartic release, a way to communicate feelings that words couldn’t express. The initial struggles with timing and coordination gave way to a fluidity that made drumming feel like second nature.

For two weeks, the studio sessions were a reprieve from the turmoil of my daily life. I lost myself in the music, finding solace in each rhythmic pattern and crescendo. The music was a companion that understood my deepest emotions, and drumming became my way of reclaiming a part of myself that I had lost.

However, the temporary escape was shattered when my father discovered my absence from school. It was inevitable that he would find out; he was always keen on maintaining a facade of perfection in our lives. The confrontation was harsh and relentless. He berated me for skipping school, accusing me of wasting my potential and dishonoring the family’s name.

I tried to explain my newfound passion for drumming, how it was helping me cope, but he dismissed it as a distraction. The argument left me feeling more isolated than ever. My sanctuary, the music studio, became a bittersweet reminder of the freedom I had found, which was now under threat.

My life became a constant struggle to balance the pressure at home and my passion for drumming. The new restrictions were suffocating. My father had imposed a strict curfew, and I was now forced to navigate my way to the studio in disguise, slipping out of class just to keep up with my drumming. Despite my best efforts to be discreet, he seemed to sense my every move.

One evening, as I was trying to sneak back into the house after a session at the studio, I saw the storm brewing. My father was home, his presence heavy and foreboding. He summoned me to the living room with a tone that brooked no argument.

“Mika! I know what you’re doing now,” he roared as soon as I walked in. “Huh? You think you’re clever enough? Skipping classes just to play some trash music? What did I tell you? Quit screwing around and take everything seriously!”

His words hit me like a cold wave. I stood there, numb, feeling like I was already sinking into an abyss. The relentless demands, the constant disapproval—it had all worn me thin. I stared at him with an empty gaze, my emotions drained by the constant battle.

“Are you listening to me?” he snapped, his anger palpable.

I shrugged in response, my silence a testament to my exhaustion and defeat. I could feel the weight of the maids and helpers' gazes on me, their eyes reflecting a mixture of pity and

discomfort. My father’s anger seemed to fill the room, a storm that threatened to tear apart whatever was left of my spirit.

In a moment of unrestrained fury, his hand struck my cheek. The force of the slap sent me stumbling to the side. I fell against the wall, the sting of his blow burning not just on my skin but deep within my heart. The maids and helpers watched in silence, their faces a mask of shock

and sympathy. The humiliation was unbearable, an added weight to the already heavy burden I carried.

I sat there on the floor, tears welling up in my eyes, not from physical pain, but from the crushing realization of how far I had fallen. My father’s words and actions felt like a betrayal of everything I had hoped for—his respect, his approval, and most of all, his love. The tears I fought so hard to suppress finally broke free, flowing down my cheeks in a silent testament to my despair.

In that moment, I felt utterly alone, a prisoner of my own circumstances. The world outside, with its promises of freedom and dreams, seemed so far away, obscured by the oppressive darkness of my reality. I longed for the solace of the studio, for the beats that had once been my refuge, but even that seemed like a distant dream now.

I stood up, my eyes fixed on my father, unable to speak. The weight of his disappointment and anger felt like a suffocating blanket. Without a word, I turned on my heel and walked briskly to my room, ignoring the stunned stares of the maids and helpers. I felt a mixture of rage and sadness fueling my steps.

Once inside my room, I locked the door behind me. The act of preparing my escape felt both liberating and terrifying. I began packing my essentials—clothes, toiletries, and a few mementos of happier times. Every item I packed was a reminder of the life I was leaving behind, but I pushed the emotions aside, focusing on the practicalities of my departure.

I reached for my ATM card, a secret possession my mother had entrusted to me. It contained my savings and allowances, a small but vital resource for the uncertain journey ahead. I glanced at it with a pang of guilt—my mother’s hope for a better life for me now seemed like a distant dream.

I quickly booked a room at a cheap hotel located a few stations away from home. It wasn’t much, but it was a start—a place where I could find some semblance of peace away from the stifling environment of my house. The hotel’s location was carefully chosen for its anonymity and distance from my father's reach.

As midnight approached, the house was quiet, and the usual noise had faded into a deep silence. I crept to my window, heart pounding in my chest. The night air was cool and refreshing as I carefully opened the window and slipped outside. My movements were cautious, every step calculated to avoid detection.

Climbing down the drainpipe with practiced ease, I landed softly on the ground, making sure not to make a sound. I took a deep breath, glancing back at the house that had been both my refuge and my prison. With a final, lingering look, I turned and made my way toward the train station, the heavy backpack slung over my shoulder and my mind racing with the uncertainty of the future.

It was days before I began to feel somewhat settled in my new life. The initial days of living alone were a mix of anxiety and relief, a strange juxtaposition of freedom and uncertainty. I had to adapt quickly to my new reality. I replaced my SIM card to keep my whereabouts hidden, making it impossible for my father—or anyone else who might be looking for me—to track me down.

Money was tight, and I knew my savings wouldn’t last forever. So, I began searching for a cheap

apartment. After some effort, I found a small but charming place that was within my budget. The landlord, an elderly lady with a kind smile and warm eyes, welcomed me with open arms. Her gentle demeanor made the transition smoother, and her presence provided a comforting sense of stability.

The apartment was modest—just a single room with a tiny kitchen and a small bathroom—but it was cozy and safe. The walls were thin, but they seemed to hold the echoes of my new beginning. I arranged my belongings with care, making the small space feel like home.

Days turned into weeks, and I settled into a routine that felt both new and strangely familiar. I found a job as a bookstore clerk at a nearby shop. The bookstore was quaint, with shelves packed high and the smell of old paper in the air. The work was simple, and the pay was modest, but it was enough to cover my expenses and allowed me to focus on what mattered most to me: my passion for drumming.

Every day after work, I would head to the nearby studio to practice. The rhythm of drumming became my solace, a way to channel my emotions and escape from the pressures of my past. The studio, with its worn-out equipment and mirrored walls, became a sanctuary where I could lose myself in the music.

This new chapter was far from perfect, but it was a step toward reclaiming my life. I found small joys in the mundane routines—organizing bookshelves, practicing beats, and occasionally treating myself to a cup of coffee from the corner café. For the first time in a long while, I felt a sense of control and hope for the future.

One evening, my life would turn upside down.

As I walked briskly down the dimly lit street, an uneasy feeling prickled at the back of my mind. I quickened my pace, my footsteps echoing off the cold pavement. The sudden beam of headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating a van that had come to a halt at the roadside.

Instinctively, I froze, my heart pounding as I watched masked figures emerge from the vehicle. Panic surged through me, and I turned to run, but two of them swiftly blocked my path, while the remaining two moved to cut off my retreat.

“Hey, miss,” one of the masked men said in a gruff voice, reaching out to grab my wrist. I tried to pull away, but their grip was firm and overpowering. My pulse raced as I struggled against their hold.

Before I could react further, one of the men from behind pressed a handkerchief soaked in something against my mouth and nose. The fabric was damp, and the chemical smell that filled my nostrils made my head spin. My vision started to blur, the streetlights and the figures around me becoming distorted. I felt my consciousness slipping away, the edges of my world growing darker and more distant.

As my struggles weakened and my senses faded, I heard the muffled voices of the men, but the words were indistinct, drowned by the fog closing in on my mind. My last coherent thought was a desperate plea for help, but it was swallowed by the overwhelming darkness as I succumbed to unconsciousness.

I jolted awake, disoriented and groggy, inside a confined space. The hum of the van’s engine surrounded me, and as my vision cleared, I realized I was sitting on the floor with my hands tied. Two masked men flanked me, their stern faces adding to my anxiety. The van’s interior was dimly lit, with only a small window providing faint illumination.

One of the men was going through my bag, his movements methodical as he examined my belongings. The other man’s hand brushed against my thigh, and I tried to wriggle free, my heart pounding with fear. Despair surged through me, and I cried out weakly, hoping someone would hear.

Suddenly, the van’s driver slammed on the brakes, causing the vehicle to lurch. My heart raced as I noticed a ballpoint pen rolling across the floor. In a burst of adrenaline, I managed to grab it. The abrupt stop had disoriented the men, and I took my chance.

I jabbed the pen at the eye of the closest man. He cried out, clutching his face. I used the confusion to deliver a quick, hard punch to the other man, causing him to stagger back.

The van’s door flew open, and I heard the distant sound of police sirens. The driver’s voice was panicked as the vehicle started to pull away. The man who had been closest to me threw open the door and roughly pushed me out. I landed hard on the asphalt, pain shooting through my body. I scrambled to my feet, glancing up to see the van speeding away.

I struggled to my feet, my bare skin scraping against the rough asphalt. Every step was painful, but I pushed forward, determined to get away from the danger.

Suddenly, a loud screeching sound filled the air. I spun around to see headlights blazing toward me, the screech of tires against the pavement echoing in my ears. There was no time to react, no way to escape.

In the next moment, I was thrown off my feet and sent sprawling onto the ground. The night sky above was vast and clear, the stars twinkling like distant beacons.

I blinked, disoriented, and saw a figure nearby. He was shouting, his mouth moving rapidly, but no sound reached my ears. The world seemed muffled and distant, like I was underwater.

I turned my gaze back to the night sky, its serene beauty contrasting sharply with the chaos I had just endured. The calmness of the stars was oddly soothing as I lay there, unable to move, my body numb and my vision fading.

I lay there, staring up at the night sky, the stars seeming to blur as my vision dimmed. A wave of resignation washed over me. I felt a strange calmness, accepting that this might be the end.

Despite the pain and fear, the tranquility of the stars provided a bittersweet comfort. In that moment, I let go, embracing the stillness of the night as everything around me began to fade into darkness.