"Agh—!"
The scream tore through his throat like glass.
Pain. Blinding, suffocating pain surged through Christ Ronald's neck, blooming like fire across his nerves. His breath caught, shallow and trembling. He couldn't move. Couldn't lift himself off the cold ground. Couldn't even twist to understand what had happened. It was like his body no longer belonged to him.
He tried to reach into his pocket—his phone, maybe he could call for help. But his fingers wouldn't listen. His arms trembled like broken branches in a storm, but they refused to move. His legs were numb, as if someone had drawn a thick curtain between his mind and his flesh. Even his vision began to darken, his consciousness ebbing away like water swirling down a drain.
Panic overtook him.
No words escaped his lips, though he begged his lungs to form them. He wanted to scream for help, to plead for someone—anyone—to see him, to save him. But all that came was silence, and silence can be crueler than any scream.
His heart raced, his thoughts scattered, his body betraying him at every turn. The fear wasn't just about death. It was something deeper. Colder. Lonelier.
Am I… really going to die today?
On my birthday?
Yes. It was May 17th. His birthday. Not a single soul had remembered. No calls, no messages, no laughter, no warmth. No cake with cheap candles or even a forced "Happy Birthday" from an acquaintance. Just silence.
And now, it seemed, not only would he die—but he would die alone.
A pathetic, meaningless end to a pathetic, meaningless life.
The weight of solitude felt heavier than the blood soaking into the collar of his shirt. More crushing than the agony biting into his nerves. He had always been alone, hadn't he? Always.
He tried to remember…
His mother.
His father.
Friends, maybe?
The one he once thought he loved.
Each memory came like broken glass—sharp, incomplete, bleeding regret.
So many regrets...
So many things he should've said.
So many things he should've done.
So many things he should've been.
He had lived like a ghost, watching life from behind a glass wall. Always hoping something would change. That someone would reach out. That some moment would matter. But nothing had. His entire existence felt like a long, unskippable prologue to nothing.
And now… now he was at the final page. A blank ending for a story that never truly began.
Was that all there was to life?
Had his entire existence been just… filler?
If only he had made different choices. If only he had been a better person. If only he had been stronger.
But those ifs didn't matter anymore.
There was only the pain. And the darkness. And the silence.
Christ's body gave up before his mind did. It surrendered to the cold, his heart slowing. His breath became shallow, then ceased entirely.
And yet, just before the end…
He smiled.
Not a smile of peace. Nor of joy. But of bitter amusement.
What a joke…
Even in death, he had no one to mourn him. Not even himself.
And then—
Nothing.
---
There was no tunnel. No voices from beyond. No embrace from a higher power.
Just black.
Total. All-consuming. Absolute.
It wasn't even darkness. Darkness implies the absence of light, but this was something else entirely. Something deeper.
It was the absence of everything.
He couldn't feel his arms.
He couldn't feel his legs.
He couldn't feel pain. Or heat. Or cold.
There was no sound. No breath. No heartbeat.
Only his vision remained—and even that was meaningless. What use were eyes in a place where there was nothing to see?
Was this what death was?
An eternal void?
So this is the afterlife everyone talks about…?
He had expected more. Not angels or demons or golden gates. But something.
Instead, he got the void. Empty. Silent. Timeless.
Yet, somehow—he still existed.
Why?
How?
If this was truly nothing, then how could he think? How could he feel confusion? Shouldn't he have dissolved with the rest of him?
And if he still existed…
Then maybe… maybe he wasn't truly dead.
Was this a mistake? A punishment? A waiting room for the forgotten?
He didn't know. He didn't want to know.
The only thing he could do now was think. And thinking became his salvation. Because the moment he stopped—he could feel something else creeping in.
Something… watching.
Something that wasn't light. Wasn't dark. Wasn't a "thing" at all.
It was [Nothing].
Not nothing as in emptiness. But [Nothing] as in an entity.
It was close. Closer than the air had once been.
It was watching him.
It was circling him.
It was enjoying his presence.
And somehow, Christ knew it. Not through words. Not even through emotions. But in that primal, animal part of his being—the part that understood when you were not alone in the woods.
It didn't speak. But It didn't need to.
It simply was.
And then... more of Them.
Not voices. Not shadows. But gazes. Countless invisible stares fixed upon him. Curious. Intrusive. Intimate.
And disturbingly affectionate.
Christ could feel himself loving them. He didn't know why. But he did.
And they loved him in return.
It was horrifying. It was comforting.
It was everything.
Then—after what felt like a billion eternities folded inside a single heartbeat—Light.
A gentle glow at first. Then a radiant presence. Warm and tender, like a mother's embrace. It wasn't pure. It wasn't divine. But it was real.
It wasn't [Nothing].
And it wasn't a gaze.
It was something else.
Something Christ could almost name. Almost touch.
He stared at the light, and the light stared back. Not as a god. Not as a watcher. But as something close.
He felt something inside him begin to wake up.
Wait… what was I doing before this?
What… happened to me?
His thoughts realigned, piece by piece, as the light approached—no, as he approached the light. Or maybe they were drawing toward each other. It didn't matter.
The closer he got, the louder his heartbeat became.
Ba-dum.
Ba-dum.
Ba-dum.
Thoughts crashed like waves in his mind. Questions. Names. Memories—no, shadows of memories.
Then—
Blinding white.
Even with his eyes closed, he felt the radiance seep into every inch of his soul.
He opened his eyes.
---
A sky.
Not just any sky—a masterpiece.
A perfect blue canvas painted with delicate white clouds, as if crafted by a god-artist whose only goal was beauty. Christ had seen skies before. On walks home. From hospital beds. Through train windows.
But never like this.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
The wind was warm.
The sun was gentle.
He sat up.
He was lying on a paved street. Cobblestone. Old, but clean. Around him, buildings with strange architecture—something between medieval Europe and a dream. Not a car in sight. No buzzing of city life. No people.
Just… peace.
Then, he noticed his body.
His neck—where the pain had once been—was healing. The wound that had been there, the one that had nearly killed him, was vanishing as if it had never been.
He reached up. Touched his face.
His skin was smooth. Younger. Firmer.
His body felt… different. Not heavier, not lighter. But stronger. Balanced. Alive.
He stood slowly. Looking at his hands. At his arms. His reflection caught in a window nearby.
He did not recognize the person staring back at him.
"…Who am I?"
The wind whispered. The sky watched.
And Christ Ronald stood there, reborn in a world he could not name.
Not yet.