This stone-covered bridge is both new to me and one that I have crossed a thousand times before. The cobblestone streets and oil-fueled streetlamps remind me I’m home, but I’ve never stood here before. I don’t know what city I’m in. I barely know what time I’m in. I walk towards my home, a small apartment tucked above a boisterous tavern. I’ll stop here for a drink and some dinner; that’s what I always do, right? I have no choice but to trust my instincts. I’m a passenger in this body, autoplaying a life lived. A life already lost. The chill in my bones from the late winter breeze jolts me awake and out of the path of an oncoming motorwagen. I pause on the bridge to get my bearings. The fast-flowing river below that I’ve seen a thousand times is familiar but nameless. Is it the Scheldt, the Danube, the Penfeld? Does it matter? I trust that my body knows the way and it doesn’t disappoint. I’ll always find a place to drink.

The warm glow of the pub tucked beneath crossed gables and slopped roofs at the edge of a town square is accompanied by laughter and music. I am isolated in my world. Companionship only exists in these confines. I am social here, though no one knows me. The bartender knows my order, my routine, but nothing of me. I wouldn’t dare expose my life to the criticism of the bar’s regulars, co-workers, or even my schoolmates from yesteryear. I can’t risk rejection. It is better just to be. Perhaps I’m a footnote in a more interesting life. Maybe I recommended a book that inspired a great painting, or a drunken conversation became someone’s beautiful poem. They’ll never know me well enough to attribute their success to me. I was only the slender gentleman a couple of barstools over who they chatted with briefly on their way to something better.

I’m greeted by the smell of braised beef and roasted potatoes as I move towards my regular spot at the bar. It’s crowded, but the barkeep knows to hold my spot. I don’t cook, so most of my dinners are eaten here, unless I’m out visiting my family. Cabbage and sausage, night after night. It’s far from the best thing I’ve ever eaten, but I’m used to it, and it washes down nicely with ale. I eat best when I visit my family, but I’d rather pay in coin than suffer an emotional toll for my meals. On the nights I’ve been visiting my family, it’s guaranteed I’ll be in here later to feel something again. Criticism marinated in love is unpalatable.

Visits with my family have become less frequent. My father sits silently with a look of disapproval, while my mother grills me on my life choices. My father, a tradesman, had little use for a son who had no interest in working with his hands. My mother longed for the days when my life looked like something she could brag about to neighbours. There was a routine to our dinner questions: “Why am I not going for the promotion? Why am I not trying to meet someone? How can I be happy like this?” My Dad offered little to conversation beyond making sure I remembered to bring a dessert.

That last question is uncomfortable. I don’t have a good answer. I should be happy. I did well in school and was scouted for an apprenticeship with one of the larger bookkeeping firms. I did well enough to make a career for myself at a young age. I was content with that and didn’t push myself to do anything else.

I’m attractive enough. I dress well, albeit my black from head-to-toe ensembles appear as though I’m perpetually on my way to or from a funeral. My outfit is emphasized by my coal black hair contrasting with my ghostly skin. People notice me in both a good and bad way, but putting myself out there to find a partner seems like too much of a risk. I fear rejection, and I don’t know from whom. I’ve brought people up from the tavern to my apartment after closing time, but when they leave the next morning, the relationship dissolves into awkward nods across crowded rooms.

I had little interest in seeing my family again anytime soon. My sister announcing her pregnancy gave my mother the bliss that she’d never get from me. There was an expectation that, as the successful one in the family, I would be doing my part to support this child, as well as my aging parents. I shouldn’t be fussing about this either, given that I wouldn’t be supporting a family of my own if I continued to waste my life.

I sit by the window in my tiny apartment, a glass of vodka in my hand, and a half-read book sitting in front of me as I stare out the window at the street below. The patrons exiting the bar are my personal theatre troupe. Two factory workers fighting, followed by forbidden lovers embraced in a passionate kiss. The police will haul the stubborn drunk off to jail, or maybe they’ll let him finish his song. Another busy night means that the novel I have been reading will be neglected in favour of the show and my drink. I’m not alone when the city is this lively. I’ll sleep with the window open and fall asleep to the drunken lullabies of my second home below. I will enjoy society from the fringe rather than engaging with it.

I’m jolted awake as I hear my mother call my name. I don’t recognize it. What did she call me? Who am I? I don’t know. I’m not in the lumpy bed in my small apartment. I’m standing in a dimly lit narrow hallway, surrounded by my family. Shadows dance on the walls as my mother, father, and brother celebrate, while my befuddlement dampens the moment. “He can’t be happy,” my older brother declares as he shakes my father’s hand, and they go about their merriment as I struggle with the question of how I got there.

“At least be happy for your sister,” my mother orders as they swing open my sister’s bedroom door. A midwife holds my sister’s newborn daughter, and a sense of purpose washes over me. My life is for this child. Everything I do in this life will be to give this wonderful child the life I wished I had lived. For the first time in my life, I had someone that I cared about. As I met them for the first time, I could see myself as the uncle taking the child for a Sunday trip to the bakery, bringing them a new doll on my payday, and decorating my barren apartment with their colourful artwork.

The small loaf of a child is in my arms for the first time, the fragile being cradled in my arms as my eyes tear up. I’ve learned to live a simple life of routine and small rewards; I want to give this child something bigger. She will dream big, live a life of joy, and be unburdened by obligation. That is all I want for her, but should it also have been what I wanted for me?

As I hand the child back to her mother, in her eyes, glimpses of the moments we’ll share. These are the happiest times of my life. My only meaning.

Now I am shot back into the darkness. I don’t know where I will emerge next, what I will see. What other truths do I need to understand through this?

I hover in the corner of an empty room. I am outside of my body but aware of my existence. It is in its final moments. This is how it ends for me, thirty-seven and alone in an empty room, in a foreign land. I don’t know if anyone will even notice I am gone. Will my family learn what has happened to me? My niece? If one person will miss me, it is her, but do I want her to grieve? My body feels no pain, only a keen sense of loneliness in its final moments. I regret the life unlived. I never did anything of meaning; at best, I lived for my sister’s child. Would my failure to live give her a better life? No closure. No way of knowing that she would live the life I couldn’t.

My life has been one of missed opportunities. Unwilling to take a chance on a career. Unwilling to put myself out there in love or even in friendship. I don’t know what has led me to be out of my country, let alone dying there. The dark room with moonlight peeking past the curtains and voices from the hallway speaking in a language I don’t understand is the last thing I will experience in this world. My final vision won’t be of loved ones crying as they hold my hand to guide me into the great beyond. No, all I’ll see is the water damage beneath the windowsill and the paint peeling off the wall. I gave little in this life; it makes sense that I receive even less.

My white light appears before me and brings my liminal presence to a close. I am home. Glowing orbs surround me, my friends, my family, and the soul connections that exist with me out of time, bringing me the comfort I seek after experiencing the absence of meaning. I have experienced purgatory. I went through the motions without satisfaction.

These beings came to me with regularity in my life. They were the people in the bar I should have taken a chance on. They were waiting for me in the careers I never advanced into. My happiness was all around me if I had accepted the risk of putting myself out there.

Something should have said that I was there. My biggest regret wasn’t a mistake; it was being too scared to make them. I shouldn’t have been the isolated pale lurker staring out his window at the world below. I should have been the drunk swinging around the lamppost, on the verge of falling into the river.

The next life won’t be like this. Enduring only thirty-seven years of it was a blessing. I could never do this again. I’ll explore, I’ll create, and I’ll love. I’ve inherited an important lesson: the world needs to be experienced.