He was an aspiring musician. The music ran though his veins, and his heart beat to the rhythm of a drum. His friends always said that, someday, he'd make it big. When a burst of inspiration, unlike any he'd had before, struck him, even he began to believe it. Months of work followed. Countless hours, spent in front of his computer. Keys and switches and knobs. Bass that shook him to the bone, drums that pounded in his head, a sound that resonated in his soul. Only when an illness he'd thought would pass held like a stubborn mule did he choose to walk away.

It wasn't supposed to be anything to worry about. A night or two over at the hospital, and he'd be on his way. Even as those days turned to weeks, he was assured it was merely some unfortunate complication that the doctor had well under control. He was saved from his boredom when a friend thought to bring him his laptop, and his special project. It wasn't until the night before he'd get to go home that, with hands shaking with excitement, he managed to complete his song.

It would be his final message to the world, followed only by a frantic heart monitor.

An oversight, an unexpected surprise, or a cruel twist of fate. He didn't know. He couldn't hear the doctors over the drugs they filled him with to limit the suffering. Days passed by like hours to him, broken up only by visits from inconsolable family and friends. One by one, they crowded into his room. The tear-stained faces of the only thing he loved more than his music. So many things he wanted to tell them, but he simply didn't have the strength to speak.

He couldn't even ask them to not deny him his final hours with a pull of the plug.

His soul wanders, bound to this world by a song that went unheard. They say that, on nights like this, it can faintly be heard carrying on the wind. If you ever hear it, and you'll know when you do, please stop and listen. The Final Song seeks an audience, and a lonely soul yearns for fulfillment before it can finally pass on.