Earth, late 20th century.
Rain hammered against the rooftops of a worn-down neighborhood where dreams rarely survived long enough to take their first breath. Inside a small apartment on the fourth floor lived a young man named Raze—twenty-five years old, jobless, and standing at the crossroads of a life that felt like it no longer belonged to him.
Raze stared at the cracked mirror in his room, running a hand through his messy dark hair.
"Look at you," he muttered to himself. "Twenty-five and nothing to show for it."
His voice echoed strangely in the empty room. No posters, no instruments, no signs of the dreams he once had. All of it had been sold off—slowly, painfully—to pay bills, to survive, to keep his mother's treatments going just a little longer.
He closed his eyes, remembering a different time.
A tiny living room.
A much younger Raze, maybe seven, standing on a chair with a wooden spoon as a microphone.
His mother clapped her hands and laughed.
"You're going to be a star someday, Raze," she said, her eyes warm. "I know it."
Back then, he believed her.
***
But life wasn't a kind judge.
Raze wasn't born with wealth, connections, or a safety net. His mother, a single parent after his father passed away, worked three jobs at a time—waitress, cleaner, clerk—anything that would keep food on the table and Raze in school. She gave all she had, and he knew it.
He had wanted to repay her. To make her proud. To shine.
So the moment he grew old enough, he chased music with everything he had.
He used the old keyboard his father had left behind, then the small funds from his father's remaining assets, then whatever loan he could convince a bank to give him. Raze practiced until his voice cracked, wrote music until dawn, and recorded tracks in cramped, cheap studios that smelled of dust and old dreams.
But reality was ruthless.
Music producers dismissed him.
Auditions rejected him.
Online uploads gained no attention.
And gradually, his savings disappeared.
Then his mother fell sick.
A cruel, degenerative illness—slow, expensive, unforgiving. Raze worked part-time jobs, then full-time ones, then overtime until he collapsed. No matter how hard he pushed, the money was never enough. Bills stacked like mountains. His music had to be abandoned; he had no choice.
And slowly, his hope thinned.
***
The hospital room was silent except for the mechanical beeping of machines. Raze sat beside his mother's bed, holding her frail hand. Her once lively eyes had dimmed, but her smile—gentle and warm—remained the same.
"Mom… I'm sorry," Raze whispered, voice trembling.
His mother's fingers squeezed his weakly. "For what…?"
"For everything." His throat tightened. "I wasted Dad's savings. I failed my auditions. I couldn't give you a better life. And when you needed me most, I—"
"Stop," she whispered, though even speaking seemed to hurt her. "Raze… you did everything you could. More than anyone else would."
He shook his head, tears blurring his vision.
"I wanted to be someone who could make people smile. Someone worth being proud of."
Her thumb brushed the back of his hand. "I've always been proud of you."
His breath caught.
"You have a kind heart. You care. You loved your dreams enough to chase them. That alone… is enough for a mother like me." Her voice grew softer, fading like a dimming flame. "Raze… please don't hate yourself for the world's cruelty."
He lowered his forehead onto their joined hands. "Mom… please don't go."
She looked at him for a long moment—eyes full of a lifetime of love—and whispered her final words:
"Live… your life, Raze. Find your light… even if the world can't see it."
And then… the beeping stopped.
The world fell silent.
***
Days passed. Maybe weeks. Raze didn't keep track anymore.
He walked through life like a ghost, drifting from street to street with no purpose. Music felt distant—like a dream from a previous life. And at twenty-five, he saw no future ahead of him. No career. No passion. No family.
Nothing left.
One night, he wandered to a hill overlooking the city. Neon lights flickered below, painting the wet streets in streaks of blue and red. A cold wind swept across the hilltop, carrying the faint scent of rain.
Raze stood alone under the turbulent sky.
"Is this really it?" he whispered to the darkness. "Is this all I am…?"
He laughed bitterly.
"I just wanted to sing. To make people smile. Was that too much to ask?"
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
Raze spread his arms slightly, as if embracing the storm.
"Mom… could I ever become someone you'd be proud of? Someone who brings joy to people? Someone who matters?"
The wind answered with a hollow wail.
He closed his eyes.
"Maybe… it's impossible."
Lightning flickered across the sky—violent, bright, splitting the clouds open.
Raze opened his eyes just in time to see the heavens tear apart with a blinding flash.
*CRACK!*
A bolt of lightning surged downward, striking the ground with earth-shattering force.
And it hit him.
Pain?
No. Something beyond pain.
A sensation that ripped through his nerves, his bones, his very soul.
The world dissolved into white—endless, consuming, absolute.
His final thought before the light swallowed him was a whisper:
*"If there's another chance… let me be someone who can make people smile."*
Then Raze's world vanished.
Everything went silent.