The Fall

James stood on the edge of the rooftop, toes curling over the cold concrete lip. Forty-five stories below, the city shimmered, indifferent.

Horns honked, lights blinked, lives unfolded in tiny pockets of brightness. He took a long breath, his chest tight from holding too much for too long.

This was it.

He stepped forward.

The wind swallowed him.

For the first few seconds, it was exhilarating. His stomach flipped, air rushed past his ears, his arms spread without thinking. For a brief, reckless moment, he wondered if flying and falling felt the same.

But then something changed.

The noise softened. The rush slowed. The street below seemed to drift farther away instead of closer.

And then he heard it.

“Why?”

A voice. Calm. Clear. Somewhere outside him—or was it inside?

James twisted midair, startled. “Who’s there?”

“That’s not an answer.”

He tried to orient himself, but gravity had gone strange. The fall felt suspended, as though he were falling through molasses.

“An answer to what?”

“Why are you doing this?”

He frowned. Anger sparked. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m done. I’ve lost everything.”

“List it.”

“What?”

“Everything you’ve lost. List it.”

James felt a surge of frustration. “My job. My apartment. My wife—” He swallowed hard. “Laura left six months ago. I haven’t seen my daughter since. I’m broke. I’m…” He hesitated. “I’m a failure.”

“That’s the headline,” the voice replied. “What’s in the fine print?”

James frowned. His mind flickered: the pink post-it note Laura had left on the fridge the day she moved out—“I can’t watch you drown anymore.” The unopened envelope from his father’s nursing home, still sitting by the door. His boss’s voice from two weeks ago: “We have to let you go, James. It’s not personal.”

And the voicemail from his sister. “Please call me. I’m worried…” He’d deleted it without listening to the rest.

He closed his eyes. “It’s too much.”

“Too much to stay, or too much to try?”

He hesitated. “What’s the difference?”

“The difference,” the voice said gently, “is who’s telling the story.”

James felt a pressure in his chest—not the crushing weight that had pushed him toward the edge, but something else. A small, stubborn ache.

“Who are you?” he asked.

The voice chuckled. It was eerily familiar, like hearing an old recording of himself. “I’m the part of you that didn’t let go.”

James’s throat tightened. “You’re late.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to listen.”

The street below shimmered. It wasn’t coming any closer.

“Am I dead?” James asked quietly.

“No. Not yet.”

“Is this… forgiveness? Redemption?”

“It’s a question.”

James opened his eyes. The wind stirred softly around him.

“Do you want to die, James?” the voice asked. “Or do you just want the pain to stop?”

He swallowed hard. He thought he’d known. But now—he wasn’t sure.

“I don’t know,” he whispered.

“Then maybe that’s enough,” the voice said. “Enough to wait.”

And then—

He was standing.

Back on the rooftop.

Gasping.

His knees buckled, and he collapsed to his hands, trembling. The city hummed beneath him, lights flickering patiently. His heart pounded against his ribs like a fist against a locked door.

Had he jumped? Had the fall actually been halted?

He remembered the wind, the voice, the weightlessness.

But here he was.

Had he imagined it?

He pressed his palm to the concrete, felt its roughness. Real. Solid.

And then—softly, faintly—he heard it again.

“James.”

He turned. The rooftop was empty.

The voice hovered, more felt than heard.

He walked slowly back to the ledge. Looked down. The world carried on beneath him: taxis weaving through intersections, a man unlocking his bicycle, a group of friends outside a bar, laughing under streetlights.

He could jump again. He could step forward and fall.

But something inside him hesitated.

Not because the pain was gone. Not because the problems were solved.

But because he wasn’t sure.

And sometimes, “I’m not sure” was enough to pause.

He stepped back. Sat down. Hugged his knees to his chest.

Above him, the sky stretched vast and quiet, as if holding its breath.

He felt the ache of everything he’d lost. But beneath it, faint as a heartbeat, was the ache of everything he hadn’t yet faced.

He thought of Laura. Of the unopened envelope. Of his sister’s voicemail.

Of the conversations he hadn’t dared to have.

The questions he hadn’t answered.

The voice hadn’t told him what to do.

It had only asked.

And maybe, for tonight, that was enough.

He lay back against the concrete, staring up at the stars, wondering if the voice would return.

Wondering if, when it did, it would sound a little more like his own.

The wind swept gently across the rooftop.

And the ground could wait.