Here is the storyboard.
The Last Fall
I always thought my house was the safest place in the world. The creaky wooden stairs that led to my bedroom were as familiar to me as the beat of my own heart. Little did I know, they would also be the last thing I’d ever see.
It happened on a rainy Tuesday evening. I was rushing down the stairs, my socks slipping on the polished wood. One second, I was upright, and the next, I was tumbling—a blur of motion and noise. I remember the sharp crack of my neck hitting the edge of a step, and then… nothing.
When I opened my eyes, I wasn’t at the bottom of the staircase. I was lying on a cold, steel table in a dimly lit room. The faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzed above me, and the sharp, sterile scent of disinfectant filled the air.
It took me a moment to realize where I was: the embalming room of a mortuary.
I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, but I was fully aware. My body was still, lifeless, and utterly detached from my will. Panic surged through me as I heard footsteps approach.
A man in a white coat entered, his face calm, almost indifferent. He wheeled a tray of tools to my side and began his work.
“I’m sorry, young man,” he muttered under his breath. “Looks like the stairs got the better of you.”
His words confirmed what I feared—I was dead. And yet, here I was, trapped in this strange awareness, unable to protest or escape.
The process began. He inserted a small tube into my carotid artery, replacing my blood with embalming fluid. I felt… nothing. The man worked with precision, draining me of the life I once had and filling me with a cold, chemical substitute.
He stitched my lips together, a task that seemed both mechanical and disturbingly final.
“Your family will want you to look peaceful,” he said softly.
I wanted to scream, to tell him I was still here, that I wasn’t ready to go. But no sound came. My body was no longer mine.
Hours passed, or maybe it was minutes. Time felt strange, like it no longer applied to me. The mortician finished his work, adjusted my arms into a restful position, and stepped back to admire his handiwork.
“There,” he said, almost proudly. “Now you’re ready for the viewing.”
As he turned off the lights and left the room, I was left alone in the darkness. The realization sank in: this was my eternity—silent, still, and unseen.
And yet, as much as I wanted to cling to my life, I couldn’t help but wonder: Was this the end, or was it just the beginning of something else?
