I was standing on a bridge over a river, leaning against the railing with my face turned toward the setting sun.
Nice.
There was no need to hurry anywhere.
No one was waiting for me, and there was nowhere I needed to be.
I could simply stand there, soak up the sunlight, and watch the water flowing below.
An hour ago, an old man’s eyes had closed while he watched that same water.
He hadn’t been standing on a bridge, though.
He’d been sitting on a park bench.
His eyes had closed without regret and without fear.
They had closed forever.
Then the eyes of a young man opened.
He was walking along a highway that cut through an endless sea of corn.
Twenty minutes of leisurely walking had brought me to this bridge, and now here I was, standing on it, breathing clean air, enjoying the warmth of the sun, and watching the river.
People can say whatever they want, but dying still sucks.
While we’re alive, we don’t appreciate simple, natural pleasures.
Something as basic as breathing, for example.
And damn, breathing feels good.
Not because it’s something a living body needs.
No.
It’s just pleasant.
The warmth of sunlight against your skin is the same way.
You don’t realize how priceless those little things are until they’re taken away from you.
That was the best way to describe what I was feeling right now.
Peace.
Death brings peace in its own way.
No matter how much you suffered while you were alive, no matter how much you struggled, worried, or chased after something, death eventually brings everyone peace.
It reminds you that everything is temporary.
All that frantic running around, all those worries and problems you thought were so important…
None of it really matters, especially when death comes from old age, quietly and peacefully, when you’re already at peace with yourself.
Well, I had imagined the afterlife somewhat differently.
There were certainly enough theories about what came after death.
Heaven, reincarnation, the Wheel of Samsara, and every possible variation in between.
Instead, I got a young body, a setting sun, and an endless cornfield.
No complaints here.
I was more than happy with this arrangement.
My own personal Cornfield Paradise.
And a second life.
Somewhere in the distance, I heard an engine roaring.
The highway beneath my feet and the school backpack on my back had already suggested that I wasn’t alone in this green ocean of corn, which was probably another plus.
Being alone is a very particular kind of pleasure.
Definitely an acquired taste, and one that gets boring pretty quickly.
I turned around and leaned my back against the railing as the roar of the engine grew louder.
I could already make out the finer details.
Judging by the tone, intensity, and overall sound, it was a powerful, refined engine.
Definitely not some beat-up economy car.
Something expensive, probably sporty, and judging by the sound, moving considerably faster than the posted speed limit.
I couldn’t really blame the owner.
An endless, perfectly flat field and a road smooth as glass practically demanded speed.
Ignoring that temptation required either an iron will, deeply held principles, or age, along with its tedious companion, experience.
Then another engine roared from the opposite direction.
This one was deeper.
Confident, calm, and solid.
Working-class.
Some kind of truck hauling something heavy.
It wasn’t in any hurry, but it was still moving pretty fast.
The engine sounded powerful and well maintained, but old.
A typical workhorse.
And there it was.
A red truck emerged from the sea of corn, its open bed loaded with metal, logs, and coils of barbed wire.
The truck bounced over a bump in the road.
Huh.
So this perfectly smooth road had bumps after all?
Big enough to make a truck leave the ground, apparently.
That was going to be a nasty surprise for the “refined” engine coming from the other direction.
And then I realized something.
This wasn’t good.
Not good at all.
I frowned as I watched a large coil of barbed wire break loose from the truck’s load.
It rolled out of the bed and came to rest right in the middle of the oncoming lane.
Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do anymore.
I was already preparing to move when the silver Porsche came flying onto the bridge.
Two hundred kilometers an hour, easily.
The coil of wire was only about twenty meters away from me, and all I could do was watch as the sports car hit it with all four wheels at once.
The tires were shredded.
The car lost traction, then control, and the Porsche came straight at me.
Head-on.
I love life.
You really understand just how much you love being alive after you’ve already lost your life once.
I love living.
I love breathing.
I love feeling sunlight on my skin.
And if you love something, you should fight for it until the very end.
Against anything.
Even hopelessness itself.
Or a Porsche traveling at full speed.
Of course, there are different ways to fight.
It’s like a fight: you can stop a devastating charging attack with a solid block, or you can simply let the attack pass you by.
Of course, “simply” is doing a lot of work there.
But that was a minor technicality.
All I had time to do was jump straight up.
Just like in that really old martial arts movie about a young girl being trained by an old master.
There had been a scene just like this, except it took place at a crosswalk.
The old master had called it the Dragon Jump.
Basically, you jumped straight up and then landed with both feet on the hood of the car in a wide, low stance.
My new body turned out to be strong enough, flexible enough, and responsive enough to pull it off.
I jumped, landed with my knees bent and my legs spread wide in a low stance, then jumped again.
More of a push-off, really.
I rolled over the windshield and onto the roof, rolled again, and then the car ended.
My feet touched asphalt.
One more roll bled off the remaining momentum.
Done.
I landed on my feet and watched the car disappear over the edge of the bridge.
For a brief second, there was silence.
Then came a loud splash as the Porsche entered the river like a diver hitting the water.
Nice dive.
But life is a pretty damn good thing.
Good enough to be worth risking yourself for.
Even someone else’s life.
So what if the driver was responsible for what happened?
So what if he had almost killed me?
Was that really a reason not to try to save him?
It took exactly one second for me to get my bearings after all those flips.
Then I jumped off the bridge.
It was a clean, almost professional dive, with my hands together and my body cutting through the water with barely a splash.
The river wasn’t particularly deep, maybe five meters.
The water, however, was brutally cold and crystal clear.
Finding the glow of the Porsche’s taillights wasn’t difficult.
Getting the driver out was.
The water made every movement slow and resistant.
The driver was still strapped into his seat, so I had to work the seat belt loose.
Luckily, the door wasn’t locked.
One pull on the handle and it opened.
Otherwise, I would have had to make another dive, hold my breath, and find something heavy enough to smash the windshield.
Although…
The windshield was already broken from the impact with the bridge railing.
Otherwise, water wouldn’t have entered the cabin, and the difference in pressure would have made opening the door practically impossible.
Still, I was lucky.
If you can call falling off a bridge lucky.