In an instant, my parents were gone. A golden light wrapped around them, and before I could even blink, they were no longer by my side. God had moved them somewhere else, leaving just the two of us in this endless space. My stomach twisted, unease crawling through me as I realized he wanted to speak to me alone. His expression had changed—gone was the warmth I had felt when I first saw him. Now his face was hard, serious, like stone. He gestured for me to sit, and I did, though my legs trembled beneath me.
He leaned forward, eyes fixed on me with a weight that made it hard to breathe. 'Harumei,' he said, drawing out my name like it carried more meaning than I ever realized, 'your death… it wasn't entirely my fault.' My breath caught.
Not your fault? Then whose?
A thousand questions fought to spill out, but my lips stayed shut. My hands tightened on my knees, the skin beneath my nails burning.
God's gaze drifted somewhere far away, as though remembering something fragile. 'The truth is bound to a promise I made long ago. To someone… I cannot betray. Until the day you become strong enough—worthy enough—I cannot tell you.' His words made my chest ache with frustration.
What could be so dangerous that even God can't speak of it to me now?
Then, as if snapping back from memory, his eyes locked on mine again. 'But you do have a choice. Three, in fact.' My pulse quickened, every nerve in me alert. He raised a hand, his fingers counting each option. 'One: to reincarnate freely, and live as you please. Two: to go to the heavens and find rest. Or three: to be reborn again—not for yourself, but to help others.'
The words echoed in my head, heavy and suffocating. For the first time since my death, I truly felt the weight of eternity pressing against me.
The weight of those three choices pressed down on me like chains. My mind kept circling around them, no matter how hard I tried to breathe. Reincarnate and live as I please? Go to the heavens? Or return to help others? Each option spun in my head, pulling me in a different direction, and none of them felt right. My hands trembled in my lap as I tried to steady them.
What if I choose wrong? What if I ruin everything again? If I live just for myself, won't I end up as the same weak, ordinary boy who couldn't even protect what mattered?
The thought cut deeper than I expected, leaving a sting behind my ribs.
And the heavens… is that really peace, or just another way to run from the world? If I leave, if I rest, won't I just be abandoning everything unfinished? Wouldn't that mean giving up before I've even tried?
My chest ached, and my face must have shown it, because I felt my expression tightening, growing heavier. My gaze drifted to the ground, unable to meet His eyes any longer.
And to help others… I don't even know if I'm capable of that. I couldn't even save myself. How am I supposed to carry others when I can barely stand on my own?
The more I thought, the darker it became inside my head. My breathing slowed, heavy and shallow, and I felt something close to despair creeping in. My shoulders sagged. If this was supposed to be a blessing, it felt more like a punishment.
Then, suddenly, a soft sound drifted through the silence. At first, I thought I imagined it, but then the melody deepened, filling the space around me. I looked up. God had raised a flute to His lips.
The notes were gentle, flowing like water over stone. They weren't loud, nor forceful—just soft enough to settle into my chest. The melody carried something I couldn't describe, like warmth wrapping around me in a place where warmth shouldn't exist.
My heartbeat slowed, the wild pounding quieting as I listened.
This sound… it feels like home. Like a lullaby I've forgotten but somehow remember.
The melody rose and fell, never rushing, never faltering. Each note seemed to ease the tightness in my chest, peeling away the weight I had been clinging to. My shoulders loosened without me realizing. My lips parted, but no words came—only breath, deeper and calmer than before.
I let my eyes close, just for a moment, and allowed the sound to wash over me. For the first time since my death, the chaos in my mind eased.
Maybe… maybe I don't have to decide everything right now. Maybe it's okay to breathe first, to let myself feel this peace, even if it's only for a moment.
When I opened my eyes, God was still playing, His expression serene, almost fatherly. For the first time, I didn't see judgment in His face. I saw understanding.
The last note of His flute faded into the silence, but the peace it left lingered in my chest. I hadn't realized how much tension I had been holding until it melted away like snow under the sun. God lowered the flute slowly, his fingers brushing over it like it was more than just an instrument—almost as though it were alive.
Then, with a small smile tugging at the corners of His lips, He asked me something that caught me completely off guard.
'Harumei, do you know why I always keep a flute with me and play it?'
For a moment, I just blinked at Him. Of all the things He could have said—out of everything I was expecting to hear—that was the question? My lips parted before I could stop myself, and the words slipped out almost on their own.
"Well… maybe because you were lonely? Or… I don't know, maybe you just like music? Or wait—don't tell me—it's because you wanted to look cooler while talking to mortals!"
I regretted it immediately, but it was too late. My face heated up, and I raised my hands as if I could stuff the words back into my mouth.
Idiot! Why would I say something like that to God? Out of all times, I had to joke now?
But instead of anger, He chuckled—a soft, amused sound that made my embarrassment burn even hotter. His eyes glimmered with a kindness that reminded me of sunlight breaking through clouds. He lifted the flute slightly in His hand and looked at it as if it carried the weight of centuries.
'This flute,' He began, His tone deeper now, 'is more than just an instrument. It is a symbol of the cosmic divine sound, representing a call to spiritual awakening, love, and surrender to the will of God.'
The way He spoke made the air still, every word striking something deep inside me. I swallowed, staring at the flute, suddenly unable to look away.
'The hollow, empty flute embodies the human being or soul,' He continued, 'which finds fulfillment when surrendered to the divine, just as the simple reed becomes a beautiful instrument when played by Krishna.'
So… we're just empty without Him? Nothing but hollow reeds until we're filled?
His words rang in my head, louder than the silence.
'The enchanting music also symbolizes the irresistible pull of the divine, a pure, unadulterated love that captivates all beings, drawing souls toward spiritual liberation.'
I froze. There was a warmth in His tone, not commanding or demanding, but inviting. Like a hand held out for me to take. The idea of being pulled—not by chains, not by force, but by love—startled me.
Irresistible pull… is that what I just felt when He played? That warmth… that peace… was that love? Pure love, not the kind that hurts, not the kind that fades?
He placed the flute gently across His lap, fingers brushing along its smooth surface. 'This instrument may seem simple, Harumei. Just a reed, hollow, without voice of its own. But in surrender, it creates beauty beyond itself. That is what life is meant to be. To let the divine flow through you. To become more than your hollow self.'
His gaze turned toward me, piercing, but not in a way that hurt. It was the kind of look that saw through me, down to the parts I tried so hard to hide.
Hollow… empty… Is that what I am right now? A shell of mistakes and regrets?But if even an empty reed can sing when it's touched by the divine… then maybe even I could…?
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, my lips pressed together. My chest tightened, not from fear this time, but from something I couldn't name. A strange mixture of hope and doubt tangled together.
He smiled faintly, as though He knew exactly what storm was brewing inside me. 'When I play this flute, Harumei, I am not simply creating music. I am reminding souls of what they truly are. Love, in its purest form. A call, not to power, not to control, but to freedom. To return to who they were meant to be.'
The words cut through me like a blade, but instead of leaving wounds, they opened space. My breath trembled as I let it out, realizing I had been holding it in for far too long.
Love… freedom… purity… how far have I been from all of that?And yet… why does it feel like His words are tugging me closer, like the music did? Why do I want to believe Him so badly?
I looked at Him again, my earlier joke echoing bitterly in my head. Compared to what He had just said, my attempt at humor felt childish. But at the same time, His laughter earlier made me realize something else: He didn't want me to just fear Him. He wanted me to listen, to understand.
'Every soul, like this flute, has holes—imperfections, wounds, emptiness,' He said softly. 'But it is through those very openings that the divine breath flows, creating music. Without surrender, there is only silence. With surrender, there is harmony.'
Imperfections… holes… My entire life felt like nothing but holes. Maybe… maybe those flaws weren't meant to destroy me. Maybe they were meant for something else.
I bit my lip, a sting of tears rising in my eyes. I blinked them away quickly, but I knew He had already seen. His smile only deepened, not mocking, but reassuring.
'Do you see now, Harumei? This flute is not a burden I carry. It is a reminder. Of what I am, of what you are, of what every soul can be when it lets itself be played by love rather than consumed by despair.'
The words didn't demand belief, but they nestled inside me like seeds waiting to grow. I clenched my fists, trying to steady myself, but something in me was already trembling.
So that's why He plays it… not for himself, but for us. For me.
The silence stretched after His words, but it wasn't heavy anymore. It was calm, soft, like the pause in a song before the next note. And for the first time since my death, I realized I wanted to hear the rest of the music
'No matter whatever you choose, I will always be with you.'
Always… with me? The thought stirred something fragile inside, and I found myself holding on to it like a lifeline.
The silence stretched, wide and waiting, as if the whole world had held its breath for what I would do next. The three paths still spun in my head like distant stars I couldn't reach, but something inside me had shifted — not a shout or a grand proclamation, but a small, stubborn turning, like a seed deciding to crack. My throat felt tight; the answer lived there somewhere, wrapped in the same thrum that the flute had left behind. I tried to find the words, to force them out loud, but the space around me seemed to insist on keeping this moment between me and whatever it was I was becoming.
Say it. Say it loud. Let it be done. Don't be a coward.
My lips moved without a sound, my mouth forming the shape of a choice that the world refused to hear. The air shifted then — a breeze, at first so faint I thought I imagined it. It slid along my skin, cool and real, and it carried with it the memory of his music. The light around us thinned, and the endless space blurred at the edges like an old painting being wiped clean. Threads of wind braided through the clearing, circling me, touching my hair and then disappearing. With every touch I felt something closing and opening at once, like a door being both locked and unlocked by the same small key.
If nobody hears it, does that make it less true?
The answer came not as words but as a sensation — a small, bright certainty settling under my ribs. It was not the triumph I had imagined when I was alive, nor the surrender I had feared. It was quieter: an agreement between a worn part of me and something that wanted to use that wear for something else. I felt my shoulders drop, the tension that had plucked at my muscles since the beginning of all this easing like a string finally loosened. My fingers, which had been clenched so tight I'd left crescents in my palms, slid apart. The wind picked up, playful and secretive, and for a moment it wrapped around me like a cloak.
This is mine. I'll carry it. No one needs to cheer. No one needs to know.
And then the scene shifted. It happened the way scenes do in dreams: not with logic but with inevitability. The endlessness around us condensed into a corridor of light, each step forward sounding like the softest drumbeat under my skin. I felt as if I were walking, though my feet did not move, and images flickered — faces I had loved, mistakes I could never unmake, small kindnesses I had once thought meaningless. They passed like lanterns, brief and honest, and each one touched me and moved on. I wanted to reach for them, to keep them close, but the wind would not let me grasp. It took them and carried them further ahead, as if to say the journey would be long and that clinging would only weigh me down.
I don't need applause. I just need to be true to this. Even if it breaks me, it will be mine.
Fear rose like a shadow at the corner of my mind, ready to swallow the small light that had lit inside me. The old questions — What if I fail? What if I am not enough? — tried their same old tricks, whispering sabotage. But the wind that had hidden my choice now pushed back against those whispers, a steady presence that seemed to hold my doubts at bay. It was as if the world itself leaned in to respect the privacy of my answer, to keep it safe from the sharpness of sudden judgment. That secrecy felt sacred; I clung to it.
Let it be a secret. Let this be only for me and Him and the wind.
In that hush, I felt a weight — not crushing, but honest — settle across my shoulders. It hummed with possibility, with the ache of responsibility, and, unexpectedly, with a kind of fierce tenderness. I realized then that whatever I had decided, it was not a renunciation of myself but a quiet forging of something new. The choice, hidden though it remained, had already begun to change the way I breathed, the way my muscles remembered steadiness. I straightened without meaning to, as if some small altar in my chest had been set right.
The air around us brightened, and God's presence — no longer a distant authority but something oddly intimate — seemed to lean toward me, listening. He watched with the same steady calm He had shown since the beginning, as if He knew the secret before I ever found it. There was no question on His face now, only an immense, patient stillness, like an ocean that knows the shape of the tide. I felt the world tilt, tiny and precise, and a current pulled at the edges of me, a quiet ushering forward.
If He knows, then perhaps it's not only mine. Perhaps it is meant to be shared, but at the right time.
Just when fear began to fidget at the seams again, His voice came — soft, close, and entirely unadorned. 'Do not be afraid, Harumei. What you have chosen… it was the right decision.' The words fell over me like rain: simple, soaked-through reassurances that left no room for theatrics. They did not explain; they simply acknowledged. They did not demand anything from me except to trust that the step I had taken, silent as it was, aligned with something larger than my doubts.
Right decision… Does the truth of it make the secret lighter?
A warmth spread through me at that, not the burn of victory but the steady glow of acceptance. The wind took the sound of His voice and braided it into the clearing, scattering it in strands that drifted into the unseen corners of my being. I let the warmth sink in. For the first time since all of this began, I felt a softness toward myself that wasn't edged with blame. The choice, though hidden, had become a covenant — not made for spectacle but for purpose.
As the cutscene unfurled around me, the world rearranged itself into motion. Light threaded through the wind, painting a path out of the endless chamber. I felt the pull of it, a gentle insistence rather than a shove, as if the cosmos itself were turning a page and my part in the story was set between covers only I could open. My breath steadied; my palms no longer shook. Even the bruise of doubt seemed to recede, respectful of what I had kept secret.
I'll go. Quietly. I'll carry this without a proclamation. I'll walk into whatever comes with the wind as my witness.
The last thing I saw before the scene gave way was God's face — not triumphant, not scolding, merely present, anchored. The flute rested in His hands like a compass or a benediction. The wind wrapped us both in a hush that felt like a promise: that some truths are kept safe by the silence that buries them, and that courage does not always need an audience. Then the light closed around me, and the world shifted into the path I had chosen — unseen, unannounced, and mine alone.