One dark night, Monica was walking home from her shift at the restaurant when she sensed she wasn't alone.
The streetlights flickered, buzzing like dying insects. Her shoes scraped too loudly against the pavement. Then she saw them—two shapes peeling themselves out of the shadows behind her. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. Every instinct in her body screamed run.
She ran.
Her lungs burned. Her heart hammered so hard it hurt. She didn't look back—couldn't—just turned the first corner she saw and bolted into a narrow alley.
Wrong choice.
The world seemed to tilt. The ground rushed up. Pain exploded—and then everything went dark.
"Where am I?" Monica whispered.
Her voice sounded wrong. Thin. Far away. Like it didn't belong to her.
"I have work tomorrow… Please, let me go. I have a child at home waiting for me," she cried, her words echoing into nothing.
No answer.
The air felt heavy, thick, like fog pressing against her skin. It smelled like cold dust and rain that never quite fell. There was no wind, no warmth—just a hollow stillness that rang in her ears louder than silence.
A terrible thought crept in.
I'm dead.
Monica's chest tightened. Her breath hitched as panic took hold. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed, "Take me now, God. Release me from this torture. If I can't be with my son… there's no reason to live."
The darkness swallowed her whole.
When she woke, she was lying in a room she didn't recognize.
The ceiling stretched too high, fading into shadow. The walls looked like they were made of pale mist instead of stone.
Somewhere far away, she could hear a low, distant hum—like the echo of a heartbeat that wasn't hers.
She tried to sit up.
Her body didn't move.
Cold fear flooded her. She tried again. Nothing. It was like her mind and body had been cut apart.
Her breath came in short, shaky gasps as she noticed a man standing a few steps away.
He was the only solid thing in the room.
His clothes were dark and simple, but the air around him seemed to bend, like heat over asphalt. His face was calm—too calm—and his eyes held a depth that made her feel like he was looking at more than just her body.
At her soul.
"Why can't I move?" she sobbed. "Where am I? Am I dead? Who are you? Tell me! I need to know. I just want to go back to my son—please, let me go!"
Her voice cracked. Tears slid down her temples and disappeared into nothing before they could reach the floor.
The man watched her for a moment before speaking, his voice low and steady. "You aren't dead. Not yet. And I didn't take you. I moved you somewhere safer."
"Safer?" she whispered, terrified.
"Yes. Somewhere you won't slip away so easily." His gaze softened—just a little. "I was sent to help you return to your son. I'm your guardian on this journey. Don't be afraid of me. I was sent by people who love you."
"People who love me?" Monica laughed weakly, almost hysterical. "The only one who loves me is my son. Where am I? Please—I need to know."
"You're in the space between," he said. "The void between life and death. Your body and mind are ready to give up, but your spirit is still fighting. I don't know how much time you have left, so we'll have to move quickly."
He paused, then added, "You can call me Oliver. We'll be spending some time together—if you want to return to the living."
Monica tried to swallow, but even that felt strange—like the motion belonged to someone else.
"The void?" she whispered. "So I'm… dying?"
Oliver tilted his head slightly, studying her like she was a puzzle with missing pieces. "Your body is alive. Barely. But it's hurt. And your mind is tired. Most people don't come this far unless they're ready to let go."
"I'm not," she said instantly. Her voice shook, but there was steel in it. "I can't. My son needs me."
At that, something flickered in Oliver's eyes—approval, maybe. Or relief.
"Good," he said. "That makes this easier. And harder."
The room shifted.
The mist-like walls peeled away, revealing a vast, endless darkness stretching in all directions. Beneath them was no floor—just a pale, glowing path suspended in nothingness. Far away, shapes drifted like half-remembered dreams. Some looked human. Some very much did not.
A cold wind brushed against her skin, carrying whispers she couldn't quite understand.
Monica's heart pounded. "What… what is that?"
"Other thresholds," Oliver replied. "Other people. Other endings."
"Is that what happens if I fail?" she asked quietly.
He didn't answer right away.
"That depends," he said at last, "on whether you keep walking… or decide to stop."
Her panic surged again. "I can't even move!"
"You will," Oliver said, stepping closer. He knelt beside her and, carefully, placed two fingers against her forehead.
The world clicked.
Suddenly, she could feel her body again—heavy, weak, but hers. She sucked in a sharp breath and pushed herself upright, trembling.
"There," he said. "Your spirit just needed permission to remember itself."
She stared at her hands, then at him. "What do I have to do?"
Oliver stood and looked down the endless glowing path.
"You walk," he said. "You face what's pulling you toward the dark. And you decide—again and again—why you want to live."
He glanced back at her, eyes dark and unreadable.
"But understand this, Monica. The void doesn't just test your strength."
"It tests your truth."