Vita Brevis
Copyright© 2026 by Sci-FiTy1972
Day 1
DAY 1 — CHAPTER 1
First Breath
They said I was born at sunrise.
Not because the sun was important but because in a life that lasts one week, everything becomes important when it happens for the first time.
I don’t remember pain. I remember light.
Light cutting through darkness like a promise that didn’t yet know it would be broken.
The first sound I heard wasn’t my mother’s voice. It was the room breathing—machines whispering, footsteps moving softly, the hush that falls when something sacred happens too quickly. Even the air felt careful, as if it understood that every second mattered more here than anywhere else.
Someone said my name.
Ari.
It felt small. It felt right.
They placed me against her chest, and for a moment the world stopped racing. Her heartbeat didn’t care that time was short. It just kept going, steady and stubborn, like it believed I might stay longer if it tried hard enough.
I looked up at her face—already older than mine would ever be—and saw love mixed with grief in the same breath. That’s when I learned my first truth:
In this world, joy and sorrow are born together.
I didn’t understand language yet, but I understood holding. I understood warmth. I understood that whatever this was ... it mattered.
Around us, the nurses moved with practiced tenderness. You would swear they had been doing this for decades and not just days. They had learned how to smile without promising forever.
One of them brushed my hair back with a finger so gentle it felt like a blessing. Another adjusted the blanket around my mother’s shoulders. No one rushed. Not because there was time—because there wasn’t—but because rushing would have made the moment smaller. And nothing was allowed to be small today.
Someone adjusted the clock on the wall.
Not to mark the day.
To mark me.
The ticking wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. In this world, the sound of time lived inside people. In the way my mother held me just a second longer than necessary. In the way the nurse hesitated before stepping away. In the way the doctor inhaled before speaking, as if words themselves carried weight.
“You have one week,” he said gently. “Just like everyone else.”
Not cruel. Not cold. Just honest.
My mother kissed my forehead anyway.
As if love had never needed permission from time.
She whispered something I wouldn’t understand until much later. Maybe it was a prayer. Maybe it was a promise she knew she couldn’t keep. Maybe it was simply my name again, spoken like she was afraid it might disappear if she didn’t say it often enough.
I blinked against the light. The world sharpened. Faces came into focus. The room felt big. Life felt ... immediate.
And though I couldn’t yet name it, I felt it— the quiet truth every soul in this universe carries from their first breath:
We do not measure life in years. We measure it in moments we choose to be present.
By 6:03 a.m., I had taken my first breath. By 6:04, I had been loved. And without knowing it yet ... I had already begun to say goodbye.
DAY 1 — CHAPTER 2
The First Face
They say the first face you see shapes you.
I don’t know if that’s true in worlds where time stretches wide and forgiving. But in ours—where life is a narrow bridge and every step echoes— the first face becomes a kind of compass.
I didn’t know what a face was yet. Only that this one mattered.
My mother leaned over me, her hair falling forward in soft, dark strands that brushed my cheek like a question. Her eyes were red from tears she hadn’t tried to hide. In this world, hiding grief felt like lying to yourself. And lies had no room here.
She smiled anyway.
Not the kind of smile people give when they’re happy. The kind they give when they’re grateful despite the ache.
“Hello, Ari,” she whispered.
I didn’t know language yet, but I knew tone. I knew the way her voice curved around my name, as if she were trying to protect it from time itself. I knew the warmth of her breath against my skin. I knew the way her hands trembled just enough to tell me this mattered more than anything she had ever held before.
Later, I would learn that in other worlds people take years to realize what matters most.
Here, we are born knowing.
The room shifted quietly as the nurses moved around us. Their footsteps were soft, deliberate, as if even the floor deserved respect on a day like this. One of them adjusted the light above us—not brighter, not dimmer, just gentler. Another handed my mother a cup of water she barely touched.
Everything in this place had learned how to slow down time without stopping it.
My father stood near the foot of the bed. I didn’t know who he was yet—only that he kept wiping his hands on his pants like he was afraid of dropping something precious, even though he wasn’t holding anything at all. His eyes never left me.
I felt his gaze before I understood sight.
There’s a strange thing that happens when your life is short: people look at you as if you are already a memory.
Not in a sad way. In a sacred way.
They leaned closer. They spoke softer. They memorized you immediately.
Because in a world where tomorrow is never guaranteed, presence becomes a form of devotion.
My mother lifted me higher against her chest, and for the first time I felt the rhythm of another heart from the inside. Not my own. Hers. Steady. Determined. As if she were lending me courage beat by beat.
I didn’t know fear yet. I didn’t know endings. I only knew this: wherever this warmth was, I wanted to stay.
Someone said something about time schedules. About milestones. About how quickly I would grow. The words floated over me like clouds I couldn’t yet name. None of it mattered in that moment.
All that mattered was the face above me.
The first face of my life.
And the first truth it gave me without saying a word:
You are here. That is enough. For now.
At 7:01 a.m., I recognized a face. At 7:02, I learned what safety felt like. At 7:03, I didn’t yet know how rare that feeling would become.
DAY 1 — CHAPTER 3
When Words Wake
They say language comes with time.
In our world, that’s almost funny.
Time is the one thing we don’t have enough of— so language learns to hurry.
By mid morning, sounds had begun to arrange themselves in my mind. Not as words yet, just patterns. Rhythm. Meaning knocking softly from the inside. I didn’t understand what people were saying, but I understood that they were saying things to me—and that alone felt important.
Voices leaned in close.
Soft ones. Trembling ones. Ones that tried to sound strong and failed beautifully.
Every tone carried something different: hope, fear, wonder, grief. In longer-lived worlds, babies grow into language slowly, like stepping into a river inch by inch.
Here, you’re dropped straight into the current.
My mother spoke to me constantly. She narrated the world as if she were afraid it might disappear if she didn’t describe it fast enough.
“This is your hand,” she said, touching my fingers gently. “And this ... this is my face.”
I watched her lips move. I studied the way her mouth shaped sound. Somewhere deep inside me, something clicked—not loudly, not dramatically. Just enough to say: This matters. Remember this.
The nurses smiled when I babbled. They always did. Not because it was cute—though it was—but because every sound felt like a small victory against the clock. Each syllable was proof that life, however brief, still wanted to be expressed.
My father leaned close later and whispered my name again. “Ari.”
This time, the sound stayed with me.
I tried to shape it back.
At first it came out wrong. Too soft. Too broken. But my mother gasped anyway, hands flying to her mouth as if I had just performed a miracle instead of a reflex.
He did too. My father. He laughed and cried at the same time, the way people do here when something beautiful happens faster than their hearts can prepare for.
“Ari,” I tried again.
And suddenly the world felt ... louder. Not in noise—but in meaning. Everything had edges now. Faces became people. Sounds became intentions. I didn’t just feel warmth anymore. I felt love.
Language doesn’t just teach you how to speak. It teaches you how to belong.
They brought me a small bracelet later, delicate and light against my wrist. Everyone born here receives one. Not as a countdown—no one needs reminding—but as a rhythm keeper. It chimed softly at certain hours, not to rush you, but to keep you aware.
Awareness is the first form of wisdom in a short life.
My mother held my hand and said, “You’re doing so well.”
I didn’t know what well meant. But I knew her smile meant together.
And for the first time, I understood something without being taught:
Words are not for filling silence. They are for making sure love doesn’t go unnoticed.
I would later learn to count hours. To respect minutes. To treasure seconds.
But before I understood any of that.
By 9:12 a.m., I had spoken my first word. By 9:13, I realized words were just another way to hold on to people.
DAY 1 — CHAPTER 4
Walking Before Fear
In other worlds, they say children learn to walk after they learn to be afraid.
Here, it happens in reverse.
Fear needs time to grow. And time is the one thing we don’t give it.
By late morning, my legs had already begun to understand their purpose. Not perfectly. Not gracefully. But enough to know that staying still was never going to be my nature.
I pulled myself upright against the side of the bed first. My fingers curled into the sheets, gripping like they were holding on to the idea of standing more than the act itself. My mother gasped softly, the sound caught between pride and panic.
“Oh, Ari ... slow down,” she whispered.
But slowing down isn’t something we’re taught here.
Not because we don’t value patience— but because patience, in a short life, looks different. It doesn’t mean waiting. It means being present while you move.
I wobbled. I nearly fell. My father rushed forward, hands outstretched, then stopped himself just short. People in this world learn quickly when to catch and when to let someone discover their own strength.
I took a step.
Then another.
The room seemed to inhale.
Every first step in this world feels like a declaration: I am here, and I intend to use it.
My knees shook, but my heart didn’t. Not yet. Fear hadn’t found me. It would one day—on a harder afternoon, in a heavier hour—but this moment still belonged to courage by default.
They clapped softly. Not loud celebration—more like reverence. As if they were witnessing something sacred, not developmental.
A nurse wiped her eyes and pretended it was dust.
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