Something about the man’s laughter unsettled me.
It wasn’t the light, joyful kind — it carried a strange finality, like someone who’d already said goodbye to the world. He sat across from me on the evening train, clutching a greasy bucket of fried chicken as if it were a sacred relic.
When I asked what was so funny, his answer sent a chill down my spine: “This is my last day.”
At the time, I thought he meant his last day as a vegetarian.
Now, I’m not so sure.
He carried that bucket of fried chicken—the kind that fills the air with nostalgia and hunger even if you’re not hungry. Sitting a few seats away, I watched as he laughed aloud, carefree but heavy, like someone who had made peace with something far bigger than himself.
When I asked about the laughter, he grinned. “I’ve been a vegetarian for fifteen years,” he said simply. “Today’s my last day.”
He said nothing more. When the train stopped, he got off, leaving the bucket behind. Inside was only one piece—a golden-brown drumstick sitting like a crown jewel in the center.
I wasn’t hungry, but the smell tugged at something deep inside me—memories of Sunday lunches at grandma’s house, laughter around the table, warmth. I glanced around; no one else seemed to notice. After a moment of hesitation, I closed the lid quietly and slipped the box into my tote bag, half embarrassed, half fascinated. It felt like I was carrying a story home.
That night, I placed the box on the kitchen table and stared at it. My roommate Mila walked in and nearly spat out her tea laughing. “You okay? Planning to interrogate the chicken?”
I told her everything, repeating his words: “It’s my last day.” Her smile faded. “You think he meant the last day of being vegetarian… or the last day alive?”
Her question stopped me cold. His laughter echoed in my mind—joyful, yes, but also free, like someone unburdened.
The next morning, unable to shake the feeling, I returned to the station. Most thought I was crazy, but a security guard named Hal remembered the man. He’d bought a ticket to Riversend, a small town three hours away.
That was enough. I packed a bag and caught the first train.
Riversend was quiet, the kind of place where strangers become gossip by noon. At a diner near the station, I met Pearl, a waitress who knew everyone. When I described the man, her eyes widened. “Brown corduroy jacket?”
“Yes!”
“He sat by the window, didn’t touch his coffee. Just smiled a lot. Told me to smile more too. Said he was going home.”
She sent me to Doug, a retired postman with a memory for every face. He nodded knowingly. “That’s Martin Clay. Moved back here recently. Said he wanted to spend his last days in peace.”
Doug told me where Martin lived—a small wooden house on the edge of town. When I arrived, only a wind chime on the porch moved in the breeze. I knocked. An older woman opened the door.
“You’re looking for Martin?” she asked softly.
“Yes. I think I met him on the train.”
She sighed. “I’m Clara, his sister. Martin passed three days ago.”
My throat tightened. “He said it was his last day.”
Clara smiled gently. “He meant it. Cancer. Didn’t want many people to know. He wanted to die on his own terms—back home, free. And funny thing? He loved fried chicken. Said when he went, he’d go out with grease on his fingers.”
We laughed through tears. I told her about the last piece, how I hadn’t eaten it. She chuckled softly. “That’s Martin. A storyteller. Said stories are how we live forever.”
Before I left, Clara handed me an envelope. “He said if someone came asking about chicken, give them this.”
Under a tree behind the house, I opened it. Inside was a handwritten note:
Hey Stranger,
If you’re reading this, you followed the trail. Good. That means you notice people—not everyone does.
I had a good run. Messy, beautiful, human. When I learned my time was short, I made a list of things to do on my last day: eat fried chicken, leave a spark.
That piece isn’t food—it’s a reminder. Don’t eat it. Plant it.
(Not literally—please don’t bury poultry.)
Plant the moment. The kindness. The story.
Life’s a chain of moments—one smile leading to another, one laugh giving hope, one story keeping someone alive long after they’re gone.
So go out there. Be kind, be weird, do something small but unforgettable. And when you do, know I’m smiling somewhere.
Eat good food. Love loudly. Laugh when it makes no sense.
~ Martin
I sat beneath the tree, laughing and crying at once. That night, I started a blog—The Last Piece—sharing Martin’s story. Soon, others shared their own moments of courage, laughter, and kindness.
A teacher read Martin’s letter to her students. A woman in Tokyo left handwritten notes on park benches. A stranger in Canada bought fried chicken for a stranger with a note: “Pass it on.”
Months later, on another train, a young man sat across from me with a bucket of fried chicken. He smiled and said, “You ever hear of The Last Piece?”
And I realized—Martin was right.
Stories don’t die.
They find new storytellers.