The Last Day of the First Life

Kateb-Nuri-Alim
Aug 1, 2025
5 min read

by Kateb Shunnar

If today was the last day of your life if the sun set for the final time on your laughter, your struggles, your victories, and your sighs what would you wish you had said? Who would you call just to hear their voice again? What forgiveness would you no longer withhold, not just from others, but from yourself?

That question came to me in a quiet moment, like a whisper from the sky, soft but persistent. I didn’t brush it off. I sat with it like an old friend who shows up uninvited but somehow knows you’ve been needing company. That question made me pause not in fear, but with the kind of sacred stillness you give to things you’re afraid to admit out loud.

If today was it, what would I regret?

We’re not trained to think this way. Most of us live like we’ve got lifetime subscriptions to tomorrow. We treat our days like loose change spending them on grudges, complaints, and deadlines we never made ourselves. We tell ourselves “later” like it’s backed by a contract. But if this was your curtain call, what would you wish you had done differently?

For me? I think I’d want to make peace with the times I muted my own heart’s volume. The times I let silence speak when truth should’ve taken the mic. The times I let fear stop me from loving harder, deeper, louder. I’d regret the "I love you"s I choked back, the apologies I postponed, the thank-yous I thought but never said out loud. And yes, I’d regret that one time I said no to peach cobbler at my grandmother’s house. Some mistakes haunt the taste buds.

But regret isn’t just emotional furniture it’s a signpost. A call to correct, to course-adjust, to realign with The Creator’s design.

And as I pondered this, my mind wandered like it often does to a story my grandmother used to tell, one passed down and reshaped with each generation until it was less of a tale and more of a ceremony. It’s the story of Cassius the Half-Faithful, a Roman centurion with more pride than patience and more ego than wisdom.

The Folklore of Cassius the Half-Faithful

Cassius wasn’t just any soldier. He was Rome’s best. A living legend. The kind of man who could break a sword in half just by glaring at it. He strutted through the streets of Rome with the arrogance of ten emperors and the humility of a thunderstorm. They said he once stared down a lion and the lion apologized.

But Cassius had one problem: he didn’t believe in anything he couldn’t conquer.

The Creator? A myth to him. Purpose? A bedtime story for the weak. He worshipped only his own reflection.

One day, Rome fell under a shadow. A sickness some said divine punishment swept the city. Fires raged. Crops withered. Children cried out in dreams that didn’t belong to them. Even the fountains ran dry. The priests cried for mercy. The philosophers spoke in riddles. The emperor locked himself in his marble chamber and wept into a goblet of expensive wine like it was therapy.

Cassius, ever the skeptic, decided he would march to the sacred Temple of the Breathless Flame a place whispered to hold the voice of The Creator. People begged him not to go. "The last warrior who entered came out blind and singing!" one shouted. Cassius laughed. “At least he came out,” he said, sharpening his blade.

He marched through Rome, his footsteps shaking cobblestones. Birds flew away. Clouds parted nervously. As he approached the temple, thunder cracked but Cassius just winked at the sky like, “Nice try.”

Inside, the temple was silent too silent. Even his echo seemed hesitant. In the center was the Flame, hovering, pulsing like a heartbeat. He raised his sword and shouted, “If you are real, Creator speak!”

And the Flame answered.

But not with thunder. Not with lightning or wrath. No. The Flame whispered… Cassius’s own name.

Soft. Gentle. Loving.

It said, “I know your soul better than you do. Lay down your sword. Your strength has built empires, but it has cost you your peace.”

Cassius laughed but not for long. The Flame showed him his life in flashes: the friend he betrayed, the child he abandoned, the woman he loved but never trusted enough to stay. Each image cut deeper than any blade. His smirk cracked. His knees gave out. For the first time, he wept.

Sarcastically, of course. “Really dramatic, Creator,” he muttered. “You couldn’t just write me a letter?”

But the Flame responded, “Your pride built walls even I would not climb. You had to burn to feel the breath of mercy.”

Cassius left that temple barefoot, swordless, and changed. He didn’t return to war. Instead, he became a healer, walking from town to town, apologizing to strangers for the things he never said. They say he died in the arms of a man he once wounded who had long since forgiven him.

And as the final breath left his body, Cassius whispered, “Thank You... for not letting me win.”

That story, wild as it is, sticks with me.

Because we all have a little Cassius in us. A part of us that’s too proud to admit we’re lost. Too stubborn to let go. Too afraid to look at the life we’ve lived and say, “This part right here I wish I’d done it differently.”

But the beautiful truth is that The Creator isn’t a force looking to condemn us. The Creator is the Breath we forget we’re breathing. The soft Voice behind the chaos. The open arms waiting at the temple door of our own hearts.

If today were your last day, I don’t think The Creator would ask how successful you were. I think you’d be asked how often you chose love over fear. If you danced when music played. If you forgave people who never apologized. If you forgave yourself for the same.

And the twist? Today isn’t your last. You’re here. Reading. Feeling. Laughing at a Roman soldier who met a whispering Flame and thinking about your own “sword” your defenses, your regrets, your fears.

So what are you going to do with today?

You can still send that message. Call that person. Bake the pie. Take the walk. Say the truth. Set down the burden. You don’t need permission. You already have the grace.

Maybe life isn’t about avoiding regrets. Maybe it’s about rescuing yourself from them before they become permanent. Maybe it’s about asking The Creator not for more time, but for more courage. More presence. More love in the little moments the ones we often miss while planning big ones.