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A Toast to Nothing (Part 4)
By Thomas Miller
I didn’t look back as I left the cemetery, but the weight of that unmarked grave clung to me like a ghost.
Back at my hotel, I stared at my laptop, the blinking cursor taunting me. I had a deadline looming, a publisher breathing down my neck, but I couldn’t focus. My mind kept replaying those last moments with Richard—the slurred rants, the glazed-over eyes, the unmistakable stench of defeat that clung to him even before death claimed him.
What had he thought about in those final moments?
Did he curse the world one last time?
Did he think of Daniel? Of me?
Or was he too numb to feel anything at all?
I closed my laptop and grabbed my coat. I needed air.
Daniel’s Last Words
I found myself calling Daniel that night, something I hadn’t done in months. He picked up after three rings, his voice groggy.
“What is it?” he muttered.
“I saw his grave today,” I said.
Silence. Then a sigh. “And?”
“No marker. No name. Just dirt.”
Daniel scoffed. “That’s all he deserved.”
I clenched my jaw. “That’s cold, even for you.”
“It’s the truth.” A long pause. “You’re the only one who still cares, you know that? No one else remembers him. No one else wants to.”
“Maybe someone should.”
“Why?” he snapped. “So we can rewrite the story? Make him sound like some tragic genius who the world turned its back on?”
I didn’t answer.
“He drank himself into oblivion,” Daniel continued, voice sharp. “He thought he was smarter than everyone, but in the end, he was just another bitter fool who let his own arrogance destroy him. And you—” He exhaled, tired. “You keep carrying his corpse around like it means something.”
I rubbed my temples. “He was still our brother, Daniel.”
“No. He was a stranger wearing our brother’s face. And if you were honest with yourself, you’d admit that, too.”
The call ended, and I was left staring at my phone, my reflection in the dark screen looking as exhausted as I felt.
Maybe Daniel was right.
Maybe I had mourned Richard long before the rope ever tightened around his neck.
The Unwritten Story
I returned to my laptop and stared at the blank page.
Richard used to call himself a writer, though he never finished anything. His head was always filled with grand ideas, but none of them ever made it to the page. He was too busy waiting for the world to recognize his greatness, too proud to do the work.
I had spent my entire career writing about life, loss, and grief. About love that lingers and pain that never fades.
But I never wrote about Richard.
Maybe because I didn’t know how.
He wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t even a villain. He was just… wasted potential. A man who had every chance to pull himself out but never did.
I ran my fingers over the keyboard, hesitating.
Then, for the first time, I began to type his story.
Not to redeem him.
Not to mourn him.
But to make sure, at least once, he was remembered.
Even if only in ink.