“Do you remember what you were doing last year, on April 16th, a minute before the clock struck 3?” The train’s rumbling was loud, almost deafening, but the question occupied its own space in the cacophony of sounds.

“Why do you ask? ”A man replied. His face was pale, and his hands clutched his bleeding abdomen. He looks up, seemingly recalling something while watching the small distance between him and the train’s roof.

“No reason,” the inquisitor replied, fumbling over his words before eventually trying to make up an excuse. “My friend and I used to play these games to test our memories, and she asked me what I did that day. I couldn’t remember. Could you?"

A small smile appeared on the dying man’s face, and the light on his fading eyes shone, if only a little, before pointing out the other’s obvious lies: “Did she tell you that?”

Shock was evident on the other man’s face. Not once did he think that the selfish man prattling about flightless birds would ever remember the minute that mattered so much to her. “I thought you’d forgotten,” he said. No, he was sure he did.

“I remember what needs to be remembered,” the dying man weakly replies. His mind wandering into memories of her and them. His eyes, though open, dream of her.

I knew long before dying that it was her that I loved the most. It’s only now that I’m breathing my last breath that I have the courage to admit it.