[ WP ] It is law to die on a specific date that is dictated by the government . You escape your death date , but the reason why its a law in the first place is revealed to you .

The first time I was scheduled to die, I was very young. 
 
 One day, after a particularly poor concert performance, I found an envelope left in the dressing room, on top of my things. At first, I thought perhaps it was fan mail- someone who admired my piano playing, uninspired as it was- until I saw The Bureau ’ s seal. I wondered what they could want from me. I hadn ’ t been contacted by The Bureau since my assignment day; the day The Bureau determined how I would serve the space station for the rest of my life. The day I became one of the cultural enrichers. It wasn ’ t a vital part of life on the station, and so very few people were granted the opportunity. At the time, I thought I was lucky. I thought it was a blessing. 
 
 I broke The Bureau ’ s seal and opened the envelope. 
 
 `` The Bureau thanks you for your service to the station. We regret to inform you that service is no longer necessary. You have been scheduled for cancellation in 30 days.'' 
 
 I put down the envelope, closed my eyes, and tried to force myself to breathe. 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- 
 
 My goodbye party was a sad affair. My parents had long since been cancelled, and my practice schedule didn ’ t give me a lot of time to spend in the station ’ s common spaces, meeting people and forming bonds. The only people who knew me well enough to miss me were my fellow musicians, and there weren ’ t many of us. And most of the others, well, they looked down on me- like they looked down on the other bottom rung musicians. No matter how feverishly I worked, I was still at the bottom of the pack. My fingers did not soar like Zara ’ s, my compositions did not produce tears the way Joon ’ s could, and I was no prodigy. Not like Morse. 
 
 A few months before, Morse was the youngest person to ever be assigned as a cultural enricher by The Bureau. Morse focused on the flute, dabbled in the harpsichord, and very casually the piano- and yet he had mastered the instrument to an extent I never could. 
 
 At my goodbye party, Morse approached me, drunker on contraband booze than he could handle. At first, he was kinder to me than I would have expected, complimenting me on things I was certain no one had noticed- he told me that of all the musicians, I was the best at tuning instruments. I took the most care in selecting what pieces to play at concerts. He complimented me on the length of my fingers, perfect hands for playing piano, hands whose potential I had never been able to fulfill. 
 
 As he told me these things, we wandered from the party, went to stare out one of the windows on the station ’ s viewing platform. Perhaps the mood and our isolation, combined with his drunkenness, caused him to become carried away. I pushed away his groping hands- I was flattered, but he was still so young- too young. But then he turned cruel, and his compliments became hurtful words, all the more painful because they were things I feared were true. He told me the only thing I ’ d be remembered for were my wrong notes, my arrhythmic performances, my lack of soul. 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - 
 
 Hours later, I lay in my bed- unable to sleep, remembering Morse ’ s words… staring at my long fingered hands. 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - 
 
 `` Your cancellation has been canceled. Your service has been deemed necessary for the station, and The Bureau thanks you for providing it.'' 
 
 I read The Bureau ’ s message over and over. I double checked their seal on the envelope, making sure this wasn ’ t someone ’ s sick idea of a prank, but it was n't. It was real, and that meant I would live. I would live! More than that, I could keep playing my piano- even if no one else wanted to hear it. On the other side of the dressing room, Zara stopped playing her violin and looked up at me. 
 
 `` What is it now?'' she asked, coldly. Zara was not a sentimental person, and had not bothered coming to my goodbye party. I wondered if she even remembered I was scheduled for cancellation. Wordlessly, I shoved The Bureau's message into her hand. “ Your service has been deemed necessary for the station…? ” she read, raising an eyebrow. “ I wonder what that means. ” 
 
 Zara resumed playing her violin, while I read The Bureau's message with fresh eyes. 
 
 I tried to tell myself that the reason did n't matter. The Bureau worked in mysterious ways, and what was important was that I got to live. I didn ’ t want to think about why The Bureau had deemed me necessary once again- maybe because on some level I had already realized the truth, the nagging suspicion in the back of my head. Soon, I was reading The Bureau's two messages over and over, comparing them side by side. Only a few weeks had passed between them- what had changed in that time? That question was the key- because it was obvious what had changed. Morse. 
 
 Just a few days ago, alone on the viewing platform, I had wrapped my fingers around Morse ’ s neck and squeezed. They hadn ’ t found his body in the trash chute yet, but he had been missing long enough that they must have realized he wasn ’ t coming back. 
 
 When I worked it out, I began to shake. Distantly, I realized I was laughing. The funniest thought had crossed my mind- of course they couldn ’ t cancel me now! 
 
 Then they would have no one to play the piano. 
 ________________________________________________________________________________________ 
 ________________________________________________________________________________________ 
 ________________________________________________________________________________________ 
 Thank you for reading! Constructive criticism is very much so welcome. Edited for clarity.
