It's on this fateful day at 2:53 AM, when Death-Cast calls Queensland Symphony Orchestra concertmaster Brett Yang to deliver the warning of a lifetime: he's going to die today. It's as simple as that—you get the call, you die within the next twenty-four hours.
2:51 AM is when Brett jolts awake from his reverie-filled sleep and grasps reality: the darkness, and also the second movement of Shostakovich's Symphony No. 11 blaring at full volume—the widely-known ringtone so many live in fear of. 2:51 AM is when he jolts awake from one dream and is cast aside into a nightmare of another one.
His blood runs cold—dear god, but he knows this symphony, that ringtone, all too well; through the countless times he's performed it in orchestra, heard it on television. In those times, he'd never thought that he'd ever be unlucky enough to be on its receiving end.
He sits up abruptly and shoves aside the blankets, reaching for his glasses, his hands almost trembling from the sheer terror of it all—no one wants to receive a call like this, and nor does Brett. Here he is, though, a few feet away from a phone that Death-Cast is trying to reach him through.
His world freezes to a full stop right then and there, fear seizing his chest and forcing his heartbeat to stutter. This can't be happening.
It's purely consternation that keeps Brett unmoving—and a sense of foolish hope, too. Who knows, maybe if it rings there unanswered long enough, Death-Cast will realize they've got the wrong person and it'll go away. Maybe he still has a chance to live the rest of his life untroubled after all.
(Death-Cast call mix-ups aren't customary, he knows deep down, but for the sake of his own peace of mind, he pretends he doesn't know. He'll keep hoping foolishly for the time being.)
He waits, and he waits a bit longer, willing the call away, but it doesn't go. But of course it doesn't—Death-Cast call mix-ups aren't customary, and once Death has chosen its target, it doesn't change its mind.
2:53 AM is when Brett loses the battle. He inevitably reaches for his phone and presses answer, holding the phone up to his ear, his heart in his throat. He won't even bother with pushing the fear and remains of sleep out of his voice. "Hello?"
"Hello, this is Carla from Death-Cast calling to speak with Brett Yang."
It hits Brett at this moment, why Conductor Fritzsch suddenly postponed the orchestra's upcoming concerts and opened the position for concertmaster—his position, the very one that holds up his entire career. God, but he's shaking—this is what Death does to its prey: it takes what he thought he could have forever before consuming him whole for all eternity.
He must have been spacing out and letting his terror splinter his heart, because the Death-Cast employee on the other end speaks again. "Brett, kindly confirm that this is indeed you."
"Yeah. Yeah, it's—it's me," Brett responds, stumbling over his words, his breaths shaking. "I'm Brett Yang."
"Brett, I regret to inform you that sometime in the next twenty-four hours, you'll be meeting an untimely death. And while there isn't anything we can do to suspend that, you still have a chance—that is, all of today—to live."
No. This can't be happening. This can't be real.
Carla drones on with a lengthy speech about how life isn't fair, about death, telling him to log on to the Death-Cast website—and the like, verses of a script probably burned well into her memory from years of call-making and death-notifying. Brett, frozen with fear as he is, can only listen in silence.
"And Brett, on behalf of everyone here at Death-Cast, we are so sorry to lose you. Live this day to the fullest, okay?"
We are so sorry to lose you. It never fails to leave Brett in awe—we're sorry, she says, but it's not there in her voice; not an ounce of genuine regret for an unfulfilled life ending and leaving the Earth all too soon?
"Okay. I will." How the hell is he supposed to live this day to the fullest when his mind's been plagued with dread?
When all has been said, Death-Cast hangs up, and Brett's despairingly and utterly alone.
There's nothing but silence, darkness, and the thoughts of terror spiralling out of control in his brain surrounding him. Death is carving him away from life little by little, isolating him on his End Day, and there's nothing he can do about it.
Brett slumps back against the headboard and heaves out a resigned sigh. "Well, I guess I'm dying today," he says to thin air-and even when given a voice, he can't believe it. Mere minutes ago, his life could've gone on uninterrupted for decades to come. Now, he realizes that he's wasted all of his yesterdays and has completely run out of tomorrows, as the saying goes.
He doesn't want to die—not yet, when there's so many things in life he hasn't done. He looks back now, and he sees nothing but the weak points, opportunities he never took. This coda of his life has eclipsed the sun for him with his own regrets—he's left desolate, forlorn.
If he's been shaken wide awake now, he might as well—he reaches for his laptop, opens the browser to the Death-Cast website. He registers for an account, and it's set in firm stone now: Brett Yang is going to die today. There's nothing he can do but accept that.
If you'd like, you can also choose what to engrave on your headstone, Carla had said on their call, so he does that first. He sits there and ponders his words for a moment, before letting his hands wander the keys and form what he wants to say on the screen. He ponders again before at last pressing enter.
Brett has a strong connection to music, no doubt about it. It's in the way his bow meets his violin's strings as his fingers dance effortlessly over the fingerboard, how his playing breathes life into whatever the composer wrote and did in the piece of music. He evokes feelings through music in ways that no words ever could.
He's the concertmaster of a professional orchestra. He's respected among the other musicians, he has a reputation for his prowess on the violin, for almost making the cut to be a soloist. He has all these wonderful things—but he asks himself now, how many affinities with the other musicians does he have beyond music, beyond all that he is in the orchestra?
Where words fail, music speaks. Here lies Brett Yang—beloved to none.
• • •
"Have you tried the Last Friend app?"
Fifteen minutes later on a call with Hyung, and Brett's come to a realization now. What he needs today is someone to spend his End Day with, someone to make his End Day genuinely worth living, because in twenty-four hours, Brett Yang doesn't want to go out silently. He doesn't want to slip away from life like thin air.
"I guess I could give it a try—it's not like I have any other option right now. Thanks, Hyung. Sorry for waking you up."
"Yeah, you're welcome. And don't worry about it. I'm really sorry about all this, Brett—you've still got time, but I'll just say now: you're a great person and musician, and it's been an honour to have known and played alongside you. Just...live this day to the fullest, yeah?"
The words allow memories to rush forth and leave a sinking, unforgivingly hollow feeling within Brett, an ache in his chest for years of life to be lost. With that, they hang up, and Brett's left to open his phone's App Store.
Brett's heard of the Last Friend app quite a few times before. It's designed for people who got the call and for kind souls who want to keep them company in their final hours.
Finding a Last Friend would do him some good—but then again, Brett wonders, would it be sadder to spend a day just as mundane as any other before dying alone, or all with someone who doesn't mean anything to him?
He's losing precious seconds the more he thinks this over, and so he decides, why not? He presses install—and it's as if the app knows how time really is wasting, with the way it's incredibly quick to download.
He opens the app and its interface pops up, followed by two options: dying today and not dying today. If only I could choose the second option, he thinks to himself miserably as he selects dying today. A message pops up then.
We here at Last Friend Inc. are collectively sorry for this loss of you. Our deepest sympathies extend to those who love you and those who will never meet you. We hope you find a new friend of value to spend your final hours with today.
Deeply sorry to lose you,
Last Friend Inc.
A blank profile page comes up lastly, and Brett quickly fills it out—name, age, interests, who he was in life, bucket list, final thoughts, and the like.
Who You Were in Life: I grew up with a strong passion for classical music and for playing the violin. I've been playing in the Queensland Symphony Orchestra for a few years, and I've been playing concertmaster for around six months now. I'm more of an extrovert, but I don't know if I've ever found a place where I really belong.
Bucket List: I guess I just want to live my End Day to the fullest, and not like any other day—take up opportunities that I'll never get to have again, and also make connections with new people that I haven't been as close with my whole life.
Final Thoughts: I'll go out with a bang.
He looks over all the information one more time before hitting submit—the app prompts him to upload a profile photo. He does that, and then one final message comes up.
Be well, Brett.
In a few moments when all is said and done, Brett Yang is out on the Last Friend app to make sure the twenty-three hours remaining of his End Day don't go to waste.
• • •
Brett's talked to about three different people on the Last Friend app now, none of whom interest him, some of which aren't all that great—does he really want to spend his End Day with people like those? he asks himself, and the answer is a solid no, absolutely not.
You're a violinist? I was looking for someone to play Canon in D at my friend's wedding in a few months—oh, we weren't going to pay money for it, but we can pay you through exposure.
Why do you dead guys always stop talking to me? What did I even say wrong?
Hello, would you by any chance have a large sofa for sale, young man?
The clock is ticking by fast, now that he's got the Death-Cast call. Brett's losing precious minutes on a site for the soon-to-be-dead to make their End Days count, of all things. He's almost lost hope.
Almost—because some people in this world are golden rays of sunshine reaching out to free those stranded hopelessly in the darkness, forlorn and otherwise devoid of any glow.
Eddy C. (3:22 AM): Sorry you'll be lost, Brett.
It's when he finally gets a message-from someone he knows, someone he never would have thought he'd see on this app. Brett knows him, he definitely does—it's when he looks over the person's profile that a feeling of hope—and also an offbeat feeling of warmth—kindle in his chest.
Brett thinks for a moment before letting his fingers fly over his phone keyboard as he types out a reply. It all comes rushing forth, something familiar to placate the chaos at the front of his mind. Eddy Chen: he's sat next to and played alongside him just about every single day. He knows him—just not well.
(He has to admit it—those parts of his days, making music alongside him, were among his favorites.)
Brett Y. (3:22 AM): Hey, Eddy. I didn't think I'd find you on here.
Eddy C. (3:23 AM): Didn't think I'd find you on here, either. You didn't get the call from Death-Cast, did you?
Brett Y. (3:23 AM): I did, actually. Did you see the announcement about Fritzsch postponing our upcoming concerts and marking the concertmaster's spot empty?
Eddy C. (3:24 AM): Yeah, I did see it, but I didn't realize why. That sucks, Brett, I'm really sorry.
It really does suck. The future that he'll never live in flashes before Brett's eyes—all the pieces he'll never learn, the concert halls he'll never perform in, the musicians and friends he'll never meet. He's wasted all of his yesterdays and has completely run out of tomorrows.
He's known everything he's wanted to do in his life before now, before it was all cut short—and it's as though Eddy understands that. His condolences are nothing like Death-Cast's. He's genuinely crestfallen, and for the first time, it's like someone cares.
Maybe they can mourn the loss of Future Brett Yang together, perhaps even through all the music they could make together-in ways that no words ever could.
Brett Y. (3:27 AM): Did you get the call as well?
Eddy C. (3:27 AM): No, I didn't. I was just kinda looking around here, maybe keeping someone company on their End Day. Make a small but still good change in someone's life, you know?
Brett Y. (3:27 AM): I see.
Make a small but still good change in someone's life—that's just Eddy enough that Brett feels warmth aching deep in his heart again. He doesn't dwell on it right now—there's been times in the past for years, to grow weeds made of fondness in a garden meant for flowers that are made of nothing more.
Brett knows it doesn't do to have hope when everything's gone to dust, but at that, he can't help but feel the tiniest bit of hope kindling inside him again. Maybe he won't be alone on his End Day after all. Maybe if he hopes enough, Eddy will ask him—
Eddy C. (3:29 AM): I mean, now that we're here, do you wanna spend your End Day with me? Maybe we could get to know each other a bit better, you know, outside orchestra.
There it is—he wouldn't have thought that it's even possible to smile at this point. At that message, though, Brett can't help but break into a smile as he lets out an exhale-the sun chose to shine through the rain for him after all. Maybe not everything's gone to dust.
Brett Y. (3:30 AM): Yeah, sure!
Eddy C. (3:30 AM): Awesome. Do you wanna video-chat right now? I'll send you the invite.
The next second, an incoming video call notification comes up—and Brett loosens up just a bit when it's a simple vibration and not a Shostakovich symphony—and he answers, switching his room's light on.
A person with soft eyes, the night breeze dancing in his hair, and a small wisp of a smile comes into focus on his phone screen. "Hey, Brett."
"Hey, Eddy," Brett responds, desperately trying to push away the warmth rising to his cheeks and pretend that a smile bigger than the universe isn't tugging at the corners of his mouth. They lapse into silence, then, "thanks for, you know, keeping me company on my End Day."
"It's all good." Eddy's hastily throwing on a coat over his black T-shirt before slinging a violin case onto his back, and Brett catches a glimpse of the front porch in the background. "So...are you still in your house right now?" he asks finally. "I can come pick you up."
"Yeah, I'm still at home." Brett quickly types out his address into their chat. "You can come pick me up—check the chat, I just put my address."
"Alright. I'll be there in fifteen—you should go get ready." The sounds of a door being locked, jingling keys, then a car engine starting up. "Pack whatever you need—get your violin, too."
"Yeah, okay. But why my violin?"
"You're a musician, are you not?" Eddy asks, looking over at him again and grinning. "We're going to make sure you do go out with a bang. Or like a Tchaikovsky 1812 Overture cannon, if you wanna think of it like that."
"I see what you did there," Brett laughs as he gets out of bed. He sets his phone down and moves out of view to wash up and get changed, before tossing a few things into a backpack and putting it on.
He grabs his phone and turns off the light, before looking around his room again, taking the weight of everything in—he can't believe he'll never come back here again. It's surreal, how his whole life has changed in just an hour.
3:46 AM is when Brett closes his bedroom door behind him for the last time-and at that, oddly enough, anticipation bubbles within him as another smile threatens to form on his lips. He allows it now, because maybe he'll be able to live his End Day to the fullest after all.
Be well, Brett.