The last bell of the day had finally rung, its sound echoing through the emptying hallways of the school. Alfred sighed, a quiet breath of relief, and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. The final discussion on nineteenth-century poetry had gone better than expected; his students were bright, but their energy on a sunny afternoon was always hard to contain. He gathered his scattered papers from the heavy wooden desk, stacking them neatly into a worn leather satchel. A red pen, a half-empty bottle of water, and his car keys followed.
"Good weekend, Alfred?" another teacher, Mrs. Davies, asked from the doorway, her coat already on.
"I hope so, Mary. You too," Alfred replied with a small, tired smile.
He walked out of the classroom, the lock clicking shut behind him with a solid, final sound. The school felt quiet now, a different kind of quiet from the focused silence of a lesson. It was an empty, waiting quiet. He walked down the long corridor, his rubber-soled shoes making no sound on the polished linoleum, and pushed through the heavy double doors into the bright afternoon.
The warmth of the sun hit him immediately, a pleasant change from the stuffy air of the classroom. He shielded his eyes for a moment as he walked across the staff parking lot. His car, a simple and reliable blue sedan, was parked in its usual spot under the large oak tree.
Alfred unlocked the door, and the heat that had been trapped inside the car washed over him. He opened the passenger-side window before getting in, letting the stuffy air escape. He settled into the driver's seat, the familiar fabric a bit worn but comfortable. He put his satchel on the seat beside him, turned the key, and the engine started up with a steady, reliable rhythm. He was, finally, going home. He was thinking about what to make for dinner, something simple, maybe a curry. But first, he had a couple of stops to make.
The drive from the school was familiar. He navigated the afternoon traffic, his mind drifting slightly. He needed to cook, but his wallet was thin. He signaled and turned onto a busier commercial street, the kind lined with small shops, bakeries, and banks. He spotted the glowing blue sign of the bank and pulled his car over to the curb, parking just a few yards away from the small, glass-enclosed ATM booth.
He turned off the car, grabbed his wallet, and stepped back out onto the busy sidewalk. People were walking quickly, eager to get home from work or start their evening. The air was filled with the sounds of traffic and distant conversations.
Alfred pushed open the glass door to the ATM booth. The air inside was noticeably different, artificially cool and quiet, save for the low, steady working sound of the machine's ventilation fan. He was alone. He slid his card into the slot, the machine pulling it in smoothly.
He shielded the keypad with his hand, a habit he'd kept for years, and typed in his PIN. The screen lit up with a soft, green glow, asking him what he wanted to do. He pressed the button for "Withdrawal," then "Checking," and selected the amount. He needed enough for the week's groceries. The machine made a series of mechanical counting sounds, a whirring and a clacking that he always found reassuring.
A moment later, crisp bills slid out of the dispenser. He took the money, counted it quickly, and folded it neatly before slipping it into his wallet. The machine then beeped and pushed his card back out. He took it, put his wallet back in his pocket, and pushed the door to leave. The sudden warmth and noise of the street hit him again as he stepped back onto the pavement. He was just a few steps away from the supermarket.
He didn't bother getting back into his car. The supermarket was right there, just three doors down. It was a local market, not one of the giant chain stores, and he liked it. The automatic doors slid open as he approached, releasing the smell of fresh bread and cleaning solution.
Alfred grabbed a green plastic shopping basket by the entrance, ignoring the larger, wheeled carts. He didn't need that much. He walked first to the produce section. The colors here were always so vibrant. Bright red tomatoes were stacked in a small pyramid, and he picked up two, gently testing their firmness before placing them in his basket. He moved on, grabbing a head of crisp green lettuce, a small bunch of bananas, and two red apples that shined under the bright fluorescent lights.
He checked his mental list. Vegetables, fruits... and spices. He needed spices for the curry he was planning. He walked past the aisles of cereal and canned goods, heading to the back of the store where the international foods were.
The spice aisle was his favorite. It was quiet and smelled wonderful. He found the section he was looking for and picked up a small, sealed bag of turmeric, a packet of cumin seeds, and a jar of hot chili powder. He hesitated, then also grabbed a small bottle of ginger-garlic paste, just to make things easier. He had everything he needed.
He made his way to the front. There was only one checkout lane open, and a woman with a full cart was already there. Alfred waited patiently, tapping his fingers lightly on the handle of his basket. The cashier, a young man with tired eyes, was scanning the items with a beep... beep... beep.
When it was Alfred's turn, he placed his items on the black conveyor belt. The tomatoes, the lettuce, the bananas, the apples, and the spices.
"Will that be all for you today?" the cashier asked, his voice flat.
"Yes, thank you," Alfred said.
The total came up on the small screen. Alfred pulled out his wallet and took out some of the fresh cash he had just gotten from the ATM. He handed the bills to the cashier, received his change and the receipt, and thanked the young man. The cashier had already packed his items into two white plastic bags.
"Have a good evening," the cashier said, already turning to the next customer.
"You too," Alfred replied. He picked up the bags, one in each hand. They were not too heavy. He walked out of the supermarket, the automatic doors sliding shut behind him.
Everything was ready. He had his money, he had his food, and he was finally on his way home. Alfred walked from the supermarket, the plastic handles of the bags digging slightly into his palms. The sun was a little lower now, and the light was softer. His car was just ahead.
As he got closer, he saw motion near his car. Two men. They were running hard, their legs pumping. The first man was sprinting, his face tight with panic, looking back over his shoulder. The second man was just behind him, chasing him.
Alfred stopped walking for a second. He was still about thirty feet away. He thought it was just two people fighting. A stupid street argument, maybe. He sighed. He just wanted to get to his car and leave. He had no interest in getting involved. He took another step, planning to just walk wide around them.
The second man, the one giving chase, suddenly stopped. He was breathing hard. The first man was getting away. Alfred saw the second man's arm come up. Alfred didn't see the gun. In the afternoon light, it just looked like a dark, angular object in his hand. He was too far away, and it happened too fast. He just thought the man was pointing, or perhaps getting ready to throw something.
Then came the sound.
It was a sharp, hard "CRACK!" that split the air. It was louder than any firecracker, and it echoed off the nearby buildings, making Alfred flinch.
The man who had been running in front stumbled, but he kept going, disappearing around the corner. The shooter had missed. He was not a sharpshooter; his hand had been unsteady. The bullet, fired wildly, flew past its intended target.
Alfred didn't even have time to understand. He was just a bystander, a teacher holding his groceries.
He felt the bullet hit him.
It was not a small sting. It was a giant, invisible fist that punched him squarely in the back. The force of it knocked the air from his lungs and threw him forward. A sudden, blinding, unbearable pain exploded from a single point, then spread like fire through his entire body.
"Agh!" A sound, half-groan, half-scream, was ripped from his throat.
His hands opened without his command. The two plastic bags fell to the pavement. The red apples and yellow bananas scattered, rolling across the concrete, coming to rest near his feet.
The man who shot looked around, his eyes wide with panic. He had shot the wrong person. He saw Alfred collapse. He saw the man he was chasing was gone. He didn't want this. He didn't want to help. He turned and ran, fast, in the opposite direction, his footsteps pounding on the pavement until he too was gone.
Alfred was on his knees. The pain was unbelievable. He tried to take a breath, but his lungs wouldn't work. He fell forward onto his side. His head hit the pavement with a dull thud.
People were screaming now. He heard them. Shouts. "Oh my god!" "He has a gun!" "He's been shot! Someone call the police!"
He could feel the blood. It was lossing fastly. He could feel the wet, sticky warmth spreading across his back, soaking his shirt, and pooling on the grey ground beneath him. His life was slowly ending, pouring out of him onto the sidewalk.
He heard sirens, distant at first, but getting closer. The running whine of the ambulance. People were gathering, forming a circle around him, their faces a blur of horror and shock.
"Hang on," someone said. "They're coming."
Alfred tried to speak, but only a wet gurgle came out. His vision was turning dark at the edges. The world was shrinking to a small tunnel. He was so cold. He tried to open his eye, to focus on the concerned faces above him, but it was too hard. The last thing he saw was the blue sky, fading to black.
The pain was gone.
That was the first thought. The fire in his back, the unbearable agony, the cold pavement, the shouting... it was all gone. There was only silence. A soft, peaceful quiet.
He felt… light. He wasn't cold. He wasn't in pain.
Alfred opened his eyes.
He was not on a street. He was not in a hospital. He was in a room. The light was soft and warm, coming from several paper lanterns that hung from the ceiling, casting a gentle, steady glow on the walls. The walls themselves were not painted drywall. They were made of a dark, polished wood, so smooth they shined. Intricate carvings of twisting dragons and floating clouds covered every panel.
He was lying on a bed, but it was low to the ground and felt firm, not soft. The blankets covering him were not cotton or wool; they felt like heavy, smooth silk, and they were the color of deep wine. The air in the room was still, and it carried a faint, pleasant scent, like sandalwood and dried herbs.
He was in an ancient Chinese room.
He sat up slowly. There was no dizziness. No pain. He looked down at himself. His clothes—his teacher's shirt and pants, soaked in blood—were gone. Instead, he was wearing simple, loose-fitting robes of a pale, light cotton. He cautiously touched his back, where the bullet had hit. There was no hole. No blood. No wound. There was only smooth, unbroken skin.
He felt a deep, profound confusion. "Am I dead?" he whispered, his voice sounding strange in the quiet room.
He swung his legs off the bed. The floor was made of dark, smooth wooden planks, and it was cool under his bare feet. He stood up, testing his balance. He felt fine. He felt perfectly fine.
He looked around the room. In one corner, there was a small, low table with two cushions and a delicate-looking tea set. Against the far wall, a beautifully painted screen stood, hiding whatever was behind it. The windows were not glass; they were covered in a thin, pale paper, allowing the soft light to filter through.
He was alone. He was in a place he had never seen before. He had been dying on a sidewalk. And now, he was here.