The old man standing just ahead of me in line—white-haired, wearing round glasses—
he muttered to himself often.
Words lost between breaths.
But one word kept surfacing: Hellfire.
It made me curious.
Did he know something about it?
I leaned in and asked,
"Excuse me, sir. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but… I've heard you mention Hellfire a few times.
Did you know something about it while you were alive?"
"Hm? Ah, Hellfire!"
His eyes lit up like a boy remembering his first love.
"Oh, the mystery! The power! A flame more intense, more brilliant, more beautiful than anything I ever witnessed while alive!"
Who was this guy? A poet?
"Were you a writer or something?"
"Me? You don't recognize me?"
I stared.
Just a frail old man I'd never seen before.
"No, should I?"
"Hmph. Clearly you had no interest in science during your life.
I've published dozens of papers in Nature and Science!
Never read them, I suppose?"
"Not really… I was a liberal arts student."
"Exactly my point! These days, liberal arts students walk around knowing nothing of science.
Back in my time, we read everything—Goethe, Faust, and quantum chemistry alike!
University wasn't supposed to be just job prep!"
He eyed me over the rim of his glasses.
"What school were you from?"
"Ah… not one you'd know. Third-rate. I was class of '06."
"2006? Hah! That's when I was teaching chemistry at MIT"
"Wait… You were a professor at MIT?"
"Well, while I was alive, I taught at MIT and Caltech.I also ran a government research institute—not that you'd know it."
He said it so casually.
But there was pride in every word—earned or not, it didn't matter.
I had thought he was just another old mutterer.
But now I saw something else—layers beneath the wrinkles.
"Science," he said, "is what moves the world forward.
Chemistry, especially. It's in everything: our bodies, buildings, trees, oceans.
Hellfire, too—it must be a product of some chemical reaction."
He was glowing now.
In his element.
"But this Hellfire… it doesn't make sense.
Back when I was alive, I nearly won the Nobel for creating the first water-resistant flame.
But this… this breaks all the rules."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, for one, human bodies don't catch fire easily.
That's why, even in executions, they used accelerants—gasoline, alcohol.
Flesh alone doesn't burn like that.
But Hellfire? Just a touch, and the flame spreads like the body's soaked in fuel."
"So maybe it's the clothes we're wearing?"
"I tested that. Felt them. Even tasted them, to be honest.
It's just cotton.
Flammable, sure—but it burns fast and light.
Not enough to engulf someone like that."
"Then… is it our bodies?"
"Could be. Or maybe something coats us invisibly—some unknown compound.
And the color of the flame—bright green.
Not like the green you get with copper or boron.
This is different. Something new.
Something... not from the world we knew."
He paused, thoughtful.
"You see, fire's hottest at its core.
But with Hellfire, it's the opposite. The outer edges are brightest.
Which means the center—where it burns the flesh—is the most intense."
He was right. I'd never seen fire like that before.
If the core is hottest… that means the person burning is suffering at the center of it all.
Hellfire wasn't just fire. It was design.
It was targeted pain.
"If I could study it, understand it… bring that knowledge back to the living—
I'd be the most famous chemist who ever lived. Nobel Prize guaranteed! Hahaha!"
As he spoke, I realized—
even here, even in death—he was still a professor.
Still chasing discovery.
I smiled.
"You had quite the life, didn't you?
Prestigious universities, international recognition…
You must have no regrets."
His smile faded.
"Not exactly…"
He looked away. His voice dropped.
"I was always chasing something.
From the moment I entered university, to the day I became a professor…
Even after that, I buried myself in my work.
And somewhere along the way… I buried my family too."
He said it like a confession.
"My wife…
I missed everything.
Didn't see our eldest graduate.
Didn't visit her in the hospital when she needed me most.
I just… couldn't stop working."
He took a breath. Shaky.
"A few years ago, we traveled abroad for a conference.
I opened her suitcase to help her unpack, and I found bottles of pills—
antidepressants, antipsychotics.
I knew what they were instantly, of course.
I'm a chemist."
Even then, he couldn't help but show his pride.
But now it was laced with something bitter.
"That night, I thought a lot.
Back when I published my first paper, I thought—
If just one makes it into Nature, I'll die happy.
But ten papers later, even a presidential commendation… I couldn't stop.
Couldn't see what I was losing."
He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
"Eventually, I tried to fix it.
Tried to be a better husband. A better father.
But I was too late.
Didn't even know the cancer was eating me alive."
He looked so small then.
So human.
"I can't call my life a success.
I chased pride, and in doing so… I left the people who loved me behind.
I just want to go back.
Back to my wife.
To be there.
Just… be with her."
I swallowed.
My thoughts turned to my own grandmother—still alive, still fragile.
Alone.
"I get it," I said quietly.
"I lived with my grandma.
She can't walk on her own anymore.
I keep wondering how she's managing now… without me there."
The old man placed a hand on my shoulder.
"So you left someone behind, too."
He nodded slowly.
"Death isn't the end of missing someone.
It just makes the waiting worse."
We stood in silence.
Two very different lives.
Same regrets.
Same ache.