THE LAST CALL

 

THE LAST CALL

EPISODE 2

The next morning, I woke up with swollen eyes. I had barely slept. My mind kept replaying his voice—the weakness, the pain, the way he said, “Thank you for listening, even for a minute.”

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible had happened.

I rushed through my routine, barely tasting breakfast. My heart was restless, urging me to do something, anything.

By noon, I found myself at the same bus stop where I had seen him the day before. The sun was high, and people moved about with their usual indifference. But my eyes scanned every corner, every shadow.

He wasn’t there.

I asked a nearby shopkeeper, “Please, did you see a young boy here yesterday? About fourteen, thin, with torn clothes?”

The man frowned, then nodded slowly. “Ah, that boy. He’s always around, begging for food. Poor child. But… this morning, people said they saw him lying under the bridge. They carried him away.”

My stomach dropped. “Carried him? Where?”

The man shrugged. “To the clinic, I think. But I doubt he made it. He looked… gone.”

I ran. My legs carried me faster than my breath. I didn’t stop until I reached the small government clinic down the road.

Inside, the smell of disinfectant and despair filled the air. I went to the nurse at the desk. My words stumbled out. “Please… a boy, about fourteen, they brought him here this morning. Where is he?”

The nurse’s face tightened. She didn’t answer immediately. Then she asked quietly, “Are you family?”

“No,” I admitted, my voice cracking. “But… I spoke to him last night. On the phone. Please, I just need to know.”

She hesitated, then pointed to a small room at the end of the corridor.

I walked slowly, every step heavy, like my body already knew the truth. When I pushed the door open, the world stopped.

There he was.

Lying on a narrow bed, covered with a thin white sheet. His face was pale, peaceful, almost like he was sleeping. But I knew better. His chest no longer rose and fell. His small hands rested by his side, empty.

My legs weakened. I gripped the doorframe to steady myself. Tears blurred my vision.

I whispered, “Why didn’t I stop? Why didn’t I give him food yesterday?”

The nurse came in and spoke softly. “He didn’t leave any name. Nothing on him. Just an empty stomach and a tired body. But before he closed his eyes for the last time, he said one thing.”

I turned sharply. “What did he say?”

She looked at me with sad eyes. “He said… ‘At least, someone told me I mattered.’”

My throat tightened. I couldn’t breathe. That was me. Those were my words from last night.

I broke down beside his bed, guilt crushing me like a mountain. All I could think of was how many times I had walked past hungry faces, convincing myself I had no time, no spare change, no responsibility.

But now, one ignored boy had given me a lesson I would never forget.

I left the clinic that day carrying a weight heavier than any burden—his silence.

From that moment, I made a vow. No more excuses. No more blindness. If I saw hunger, I would feed it. If I saw pain, I would ease it. If I saw a stranger reaching out, I would not look away.

Because sometimes, the last call is not just a phone ringing. It is life itself, asking if we still have humanity left.

That boy may never have had a proper burial, or a name remembered by the world. But in my heart, he would forever live on.

The boy who mattered.

The boy who taught me that kindness delayed is kindness denied.

That was how The Last Call ended—

With a silence that still echoes every night I close my eyes.

The nurse looked at me and said softly,

“He didn’t leave any name. But before he closed his eyes, he whispered— ‘At least, someone told me I mattered.’”

My heart broke. I stood there, staring at his lifeless body, tears running down my face.

That was the last call.

THE END