There are many ways to die, but death is one.
One may sleep and never wake up. One may run a contest and never reach the finish line.One could be driving and never be able to hold the brake. One may breathe in and never be able to breathe out. One may drink water and fail to gulp it down. This reminds me of a story not too long ago.
Beneath the relentless sun, where dust danced in the heat and sweat clung to brows like a second skin, death arrived not with a roar, but a whisper.
It began as an ordinary day. The boss mason, a burly man with calloused hands and a voice like gravel, wiped his forehead and barked at his junior: “Bread. Coca-Cola. Go.” The younger man scurried off, but his mind lingered elsewhere—on debts, on dreams, on the weight of the heat. He returned with a loaf and a frosty bottle of Pepsi, its logo glinting defiantly in the light.
The boss’s face darkened. “Coca-Cola,” he growled, thrusting the bottle back. “Not this.” The junior hesitated, shame prickling his neck, but hurried off again.
Alone, the boss tore into the bread. It was dry, crumbling at the edges, but he chewed hungrily, the rhythm of his jaw steady as a metronome. When the junior returned, panting, with the correct drink, the boss snatched it without thanks. He cracked the cap, the fizz hissing like a sigh.
One bite. One sip.
The world froze.
His eyes bulged—a choked gasp, a hand clawing at his throat. The bread, now a gummy mass, lodged itself like a stone. The Coca-Cola bubbled mockingly in the bottle, untouched save for that single, fatal swallow. The junior stood paralyzed, the air thick with horror. By the time hands pried the boss’s jaw open, it was too late. His face, once flushed with irritation, was pallid, waxy. A fly settled on the abandoned bread.
They called the undertaker, whose practiced hands folded the boss into a shroud. Later, an elder from the village, his voice weathered as ancient bark, shook his head. “Death has a thousand doors,” he murmured. “But only one exit.”
