Ten Minutes

There once was a man whose life, from the outside, looked quietly unremarkable. He showed up for work. He smiled at neighbours. He paid his bills. But behind his eyes was a storm—an unrelenting hum of anxiety, and a heaviness in his chest that no one else could feel.

He never spoke of it. Not once. He feared judgment, feared being misunderstood, feared seeming weak. So he bottled it all up—every panic that gripped his heart in the silence of night, every morning where getting out of bed felt like climbing a mountain, every thought that told him he wasn’t enough.

He laughed at the right times. Nodded in meetings. Showed up at family events. But inside, he was quietly breaking.

One evening, with no note, no explanation, and no visible warning signs, he took his life.

The next moment, he stood before the gates of heaven. The silence was profound—no pain, no weight, no fear. Just stillness. And then, a voice.

"Come, sit with me," said God, who was not angry, nor disappointed—only kind.

The man sat, and God placed a hand gently on his shoulder.
"I want to show you something," He said.

Before them unraveled a vision—a life the man never lived.
He saw himself walking down the aisle, nervous but glowing. A woman stood opposite him, eyes filled with love and patience.

He saw the birth of his children—messy, magical moments. Nights holding them to sleep. Little feet racing through the house.

He saw himself growing older. Laughing in the backyard with friends. Holding his wife’s hand through good times and bad.

He saw his children grow up, make mistakes, find their own way. Grandchildren bursting through the door to hug him. Quiet Sunday mornings. A life full of joy—not without hardship, but rich with meaning.

He saw himself at 95, in a room filled with love. A hospital bed, yes, but no fear. Just hands holding his, a wife kissing his forehead, children thanking him, grandchildren curled up beside him. A life complete.

Tears filled the man's eyes.

"I never saw this," he whispered.

"I know," God said. "That’s why I’m giving you a gift. Ten minutes. Go back. Just ten minutes."

In a blink, he was back in the room, the note unwritten, the decision paused. He picked up his phone. He called a friend. He cried. He told the truth. He asked for help.

And so, his story changed.

He lived.
He loved.
He stumbled.
He laughed.
He healed.
He endured.
He died at 95, surrounded by everyone he thought he never deserved.

And when he returned to heaven the second time, God simply smiled and said, "Welcome home."

By Arun Patel