Chapter One: The Boy Who Knew He Was Dead
I walk out into the open, where there is no stage and no curtain, and still I bow.
Not because anyone asked me to—but because it feels polite to acknowledge an audience that does not exist.
"Hi," I say, smiling a little too easily.
"My name is Malik. I'm nineteen years old. And I'm dead."
I let the words settle, as if they carry weight. They should. They don't, not here. There's no gasp, no sharp intake of breath, no whisper spreading through rows of seats. Just silence. Comfortable, intimate silence. The kind that listens.
I shove my hands into my pockets and rock back on my heels. "Yeah, I know. That's usually the part where someone interrupts and says, 'Wait, what?' Or 'That's not funny.' Or maybe 'You don't look dead.'"
I glance down at myself, inspecting. "Honestly? I agree. I look great."
A pause. Then a shrug.
"You're probably wondering how I know I'm dead."
I lift a finger, as if I can see someone about to speak. "And no, it's not because of a chalk outline, or a dramatic hospital flatline, or some ghostly mirror situation. It's… complicated."
I inhale slowly, then exhale.
"Let's go back," I say. "One month before everything went wrong."
The world folds.
One month earlier, Malik was very much alive.
The school bell screamed its freedom song, sharp and metallic, echoing through the corridors of Al-Nur High like a prison gate finally swinging open. Students poured out in waves—laughing, shouting, complaining, arguing over nothing and everything at once.
Malik stepped out through the front gates with his backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, sunlight catching in his dark curls. His face held the easy smile of someone who believed—truly believed—that tomorrow would arrive exactly as expected.
"To freedom!" Sayyid declared, throwing both hands up dramatically.
Sam snorted beside him. "Bro, it's just Thursday."
"That's what they want you to think," Sayyid replied solemnly. "But Thursday is the most dangerous day. You relax. You get hopeful. Then—boom—Friday homework."
Malik laughed, the sound bright and unguarded. "You're both idiots."
Sayyid placed a hand over his heart. "And yet, you love us."
"I tolerate you," Malik corrected.
They walked together down the dusty road outside the school, shoes crunching softly against gravel. The afternoon air was warm, carrying the distant scent of fried snacks from a nearby stall and the hum of passing motorbikes.
"So," Sam said, adjusting his glasses, "movie night today?"
Malik nodded. "Yeah. Probably. Mom's been working late all week, so she's in one of her 'family time is sacred' moods."
Sayyid grinned. "That means singing again, doesn't it?"
Malik groaned. "Please don't remind me."
They reached the junction where their paths split. Sayyid slapped Malik on the shoulder. "Same time tomorrow?"
"Same time," Malik replied.
Sam gave a small wave. "Don't stay up too late."
Malik scoffed. "I'm responsible now."
They laughed, exchanged their final goodbyes, and went their separate ways—none of them aware that they had just lived through something ordinary for the last time.
Malik walked home with an easy stride, humming a tune he didn't even realize he knew by heart. The sun dipped lower, painting the neighborhood in soft gold and long shadows.
The front gate creaked as he pushed it open.
"I'm home," he called.
Almost immediately, his mother appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. Her face lit up when she saw him.
"There you are," she said warmly.
Malik dropped his bag and crossed the room in three quick steps, wrapping his arms around her. She laughed softly, hugging him back just as tightly.
"You're crushing me," she teased.
"Impossible," Malik replied. "I'm as light as air."
She smelled like spices and soap and something unmistakably home. Malik lingered in the embrace longer than necessary, resting his chin briefly on her shoulder.
"How was school?" she asked.
"Survivable," he said. "Sayyid is still convinced Thursday is cursed."
She chuckled. "That boy watches too many movies."
"Speaking of movies," Malik said, pulling away, "what's for dinner?"
"Patience," she replied, tapping his forehead lightly. "Go wash up. Your father will be home soon."
Malik obeyed, washing his hands and face, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Nineteen. Young. Alive. He didn't know how fragile those words were yet.
Dinner was simple—rice, stew, bread—but it tasted perfect. His father joined them, tired but smiling, asking about school, nodding thoughtfully at Malik's half-serious complaints.
Afterward, Malik helped clear the table, then practically skipped to his room.
His room was his sanctuary. Posters on the walls. A shelf crowded with novels—fantasy, sci-fi, stories of heroes who survived impossible odds. He kicked off his shoes, flopped onto the bed, and grabbed his phone.
A movie started playing, its glow filling the room. Malik watched absently at first, then more intently, losing himself in someone else's story. When the movie ended, he switched to reading, flipping between chapters, worlds bleeding into one another.
Time slipped by unnoticed.
A knock came at the door.
"Malik," his mother called softly. "It's late."
He glanced at the clock and blinked. "Already?"
She stepped inside, arms folded gently. "You have school tomorrow."
"I know, I know," he said, sitting up. "Just one more chapter?"
She smiled knowingly. "That's what you said yesterday."
He grinned back. "And I survived."
She crossed the room and sat beside him. "Come on. Lights off."
Malik sighed dramatically but obeyed, setting his phone aside.
As she stood to leave, Malik caught her hand. "Wait."
She paused. "What is it?"
"Can we…?" He trailed off.
She understood immediately.
With a soft smile, she began to sing.
It was an old song—one she'd sung to him since he was a child. Her voice was gentle, slightly tired, but steady. Malik closed his eyes, letting the familiar melody wrap around him like a blanket.
For a moment, the world was only that song.
When it ended, she brushed a kiss against his forehead. "Goodnight, my son."
"Goodnight, Mom."
She turned off the light and quietly left the room, closing the door behind her.
The darkness settled.
Malik lay still for a full minute.
Then, slowly, he opened his eyes.
A mischievous smile crept across his face as he reached for his phone, the screen lighting up the room once more.
"Just one more movie," he whispered to no one.
He didn't know that somewhere, far ahead in time, another version of him was standing before an invisible audience, explaining calmly and clearly that he was already dead.
And that this night—this perfectly ordinary, stolen moment of light in the dark—was one of the last times he ever felt truly alive.