He had been a runner since he was a young boy, running the mile from his parents’ house to the mailbox and back. Even after falling unconscious once and getting diagnosed with a congenital heart disease, he would still run. “Exercising makes the heart stronger,” he would often say.

“Do you not have a sense of your mortality in that big head of yours?” His mother said one day. “The doctor told you to take it easy, not to have you running all over the place.”

“But ma, I’m going to run a marathon.” He whined, “I must train.”

It was his dream to run a marathon and he was going to do it even if it killed him. One day, as he was jogging down the tree-lined driveway toward the road, he suddenly felt a tight sensation in his chest, like his heart was being squeezed by an invisible hand. Instinctively, he grabbed his chest and fell backward.

Some time later, he sat up, feeling fine for the first time in a long time. When he stood up and look back at the ground, his eyes grew three folds. On the ground was his body – eyes closed and face pale as a ghost – running had killed him.

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