It was Sunday again. I sat by the window, glancing at the morning sun. The winter morning sun is the warmest.
I live in a small apartment that I rented about six months ago. I moved to the city after being recruited by a typical company for a standard 9-to-5 office job.
Initially, I chose this apartment for two main reasons: the bedroom window welcomed the morning sun, despite the less-than-ideal view. The terrace was well-maintained, complete with a few potted plants. The plants were lush and properly watered. Since the owner didn't live in the building, I guessed it must have been the housekeeper's hobby. I decided to rent this place, despite the high deposit. Now that I've lived here for six months, I feel proud of my decision-making skills. Even the neighbours are quite quiet; I haven't encountered them yet. It's as if they don't exist at all. I wouldn't have known I had neighbours if the owner hadn't informed me about them.
Like any other Sunday, I went up to the terrace to find a cosy spot to sit down and reply to the growing stack of letters from my hometown. I settled into a corner, and just as I was about to start, my eyes landed on something peculiar. I stood up and approached it. It was a pigeon. But why was it lying on the ground? Was it dead? Yes, it seemed to be lifeless. I stared at it for a while, then decided to mind my own business since pigeons were quite common in the area and the housekeeper was efficient.
After finishing my replies, I looked out from the terrace. Its boundary wall was relatively stout yet sturdy enough to lean on without fear. I enjoyed the morning breeze for a few moments while admiring the endless concrete jungle around me before I decided to leave as the sun blazed in the sky.
---
Over the next two weeks, I was unable to reply to any letters or go up to the terrace due to the projects I needed to work on. Plus, there were consecutive rains throughout the two weeks. Now, in the last week of the month, I finally made my way up to the terrace.
I STOPPED IN MY STEPS. It was still there!
I wasn't able to process it. Like it even rained heavily, why was it still unmoved?
There wasn't even any stench. If someone else were present here with me, I'm sure they'd be more horrified by my expression than the dead body of that darn pigeon. I unconsciously took a few steps back, and the grip on my bag loosened, making it drop to the ground. I instinctively bent to pick it up. Just as my hand reached to the back, I felt a lingering image of It behind my legs. And when I focused my sight, it wasn't there. There was nothing there, not even a simple stain. I immediately grabbed my bag and left the terrace. I couldn't understand how it was possible. The plants behind the dead pigeon were watered, so how was it unnoticed by the housekeeper? I could be overreacting, but it's better to be careful than regret it later. I decided to talk it out with the housekeeper.
"I checked the terrace morning itself, I didn't spot anything though... But I'll go check it again"
She... she didn't see it?
What exactly is going on here? Is it only me who can see it?
Whom do I consult with, a priest or a psychiatrist?
I settled into my apartment and poured myself a calming drink. The housekeeper came up and informed me that she didn't find any dead birds. For the rest of Sunday, I thought deeply about it.
---
The next day after work, I invited my co-worker to my apartment and persuaded her to come up to the terrace to have a chat. I wanted to check it one more time.
The moment I stepped back onto the terrace, my eyes were already on it. Of course, IT WAS STILL THERE! But it looked a little different this time. Upon closer inspection, it had decayed significantly more; its skull was visible, and its wings had fallen like tattered fabric. How did it decay over several months in just one day? Just a few inches away were two tiny bones, clearly part of the pigeon's.
My hand trembled for a moment as I glanced at her beside me. She didn't seem to notice, or perhaps she did but was acting nonchalant about it. I could ask her, but what would I even say?
Can you see a dead pigeon here? Cause I can, and I believe no one else can.
I can't simply say that; she might doubt my sanity, and she's not even close to me.
She stood at a distance from the dead bird, leaning on the boundary wall, peeping down. I hesitantly joined her by partially sitting at the boundary wall with my feet firm on the ground. All this time, she was chatting in a carefree manner, but I wasn't able to pay attention to any of her words. Just for a moment, I was calmed down from the constant paranoia when a strong, cool breeze hit us. I closed my eyes and felt the keepsake bracelet on my left wrist...
I opened my eyes when the wind finally ceased.
When I looked at the spot where the bird lay, it was decayed. It... it wasn't there, not anymore. As if it had never been there: neither the bones nor a feather. My expression remained neutral, and my brows stayed relaxed; instead, a smile slipped through. The confusing situation now finally made sense. It never had to make sense.
As I was trapped in a daze, a strong force struck my face. It hurt immensely. My vision was obscured. I couldn't see anything, and my feet felt disconnected from the ground. When I regained my vision, I saw the beautiful pink sky after sunset, with a bunch of pigeons flying across it. No one screamed my name. No one was there for my final vision, just the pigeons. Just like that disintegrated entity, I will never be looked for,
I will become invisible until someone takes my name.