[ WP ] You live in a universe where everyone learns their last words 20 years before they die .

Michael paused at the top of the stairs and looked down the hall at the outline of the attic door. Today was the day. Questions and theories that had been laid to rest over the past 20 years, buried deep in some unconscious part of his brain, came bubbling back to the surface of his mind as he walked toward the cord hanging from the ceiling. 
 
 What if he did n't say anything today? What if he remained perfectly silent? That was certainly possible was n't it? You ca n't have last words if they're never uttered, right? He covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve as he pulled the cord, showering himself with years worth of dust. Fishing the small flashlight from his pocket, he climbed the fold out ladder and flicked it on. 
 
 The cone of light, small as it was, illuminated treasured moments in his life one by one as it passed over various collections of memories long since forgotten. He passed the diplomas and trophies, wedding albums and family photos and old home videos and classic DVDs, love letters and tax returns – all of it kept and hidden away for safe keeping. He realized that all this time he'd been careful to save and document his life, preparing for this day. He wanted to be remembered. To have something to pass on. And here, collecting dust in the attic, was that legacy. 
 
 Tomorrow, he thought, I'll clean it up. After today, when all this no longer matters and I'm free from this... curse, I'll pull all this down and sort through it, he thought. Better yet, I'll burn it! It'll be a new day, a new life! 
 
 He clung to this optimism as the light fell on a single wooden box wedged in the highest joint of the furthest rafter. He reached up and pried it free, wiped the grime from its surface with the edge of his sleeve, and looked at the date staring up at him. Today's date – exactly 20 years from when the box was delivered. 
 
 Everyone eventually got a box like this. Everyone. It contained what was affectionately known as “ your death sentence. ” Not in the capital punishment kind of way, but in the most literal translation possible: inscribed within it's thin wooden walls were the last words – the last sentence – you would speak before your death. Everyone got one. 
 
 He was the first of his friends to get a box, but so far he was the only one that had n't opened it. Everyone always picked up their box and, filled with a mixed sense of relief and dread, slowly slid the top off. They all read their death sentence etched into the bottom, considered it, memorized it, and then they'd get on with their lives, letting the sentence fade into nothing over the next two decades until, by some chance of fate, they let it slip and found themselves face to face with the grim reaper. 
 
 Well not today! Michael clutched the box firmly in his hand and descended the ladder and then the stairs, working his way to the kitchen where he knew his wife would be. He wanted her there to bear witness. You see, by waiting until the day of, there was no forgetting the words that would end his life. He would read the words, know them, and then keep his mouth firmly shut the rest of the day. And if, for whatever reason, he had to speak, he would know exactly what combination of syllables to avoid in order to stay above ground. 
 
 Karen was cutting vegetables when Michael shuffled in and sat at the bar. She barely noticed him as she deftly sliced through peppers and carrots and tomatoes and cucumbers and - 
 
 She heard a soft thud as Michael dropped something onto the counter. She stopped cutting and looked up. It was a small wooden box, not much bigger than a matchbox, and she recognized it immediately. She knew it was n't hers – she'd gotten and opened her own only a few years ago – but she still felt her pulse quicken. She pulled the box closer and checked the date, then twisted her wrist and looked at her watch. They matched. Had it really been that long? Had this day already arrived? It felt too early, too soon. She slid the box back across the counter to Michael and looked at his face. He seemed nervous, but confident. He seemed ready. 
 
 Michael could feel his insides churning. He took a few deep breaths and gave his wife a tight lipped smile. She tried to smile back. It was going to be OK, he decided, just get it over with. He slid the lid off the box with one hand and let it clatter to the floor. He peered inside and read his death sentence and then stood there, puzzling over the two little words he saw. He creased his brow in confusion and looked back up at his wife. 
 
 “ That's it? ” 
 
 He did n't even register her movement, an imperceptible flash of silver, but was able to see her manage one last smile. She nodded and replied as he sank behind the breakfast bar, gasping and choking and clutching his throat. 
 
 “ That's it. ”
