He had grown up an orphan, passed from hand to hand within the walls of an institution that smelled of rust and dust. Until he was eighteen, the orphanage was his cage. After that, the world outside became a larger, harsher one. At twenty-one, he should have been free, but instead he was trapped in another kind of prison: the cycle of survival. College lectures by day, part-time jobs by night. Bills, duties, endless repetition.
Each day blurred into the next, a chain around his neck he could never shake off.
His heart longed for escape… yet all he found was emptiness.
But one day… everything came crashing down.
It happened suddenly, like a bridge shaking under its own weight before collapsing into ruin. I don't even remember moving—maybe I didn't. Maybe I couldn't.
All I know is that I stood there, frozen, as the headlights of a truck bore down on me. Time slowed, each second stretching into eternity.
And yet… I didn't feel fear.
No panic, no desperate urge to run. Only a strange, quiet relief. It felt as if all the misery, the weight of the endless cycle, was finally about to end.
The world blurred white, metal roared, and the truck collided with me.
Then—darkness.
He blinked—or so he thought.
There were no eyes, no body, yet he felt the act of opening them. In that instant, the world around him revealed itself: a vast, endless blackness stretching into eternity.
At the center of that void stood a single, glowing block of white. It was stark, unyielding, and impossible in its simplicity. It pulsed faintly, like a slow, steady heartbeat in the dark.
He realized this was the first thing he had seen since the collision, since the truck's blinding lights had swallowed him whole. And for the first time since then, he felt… aware.
Drawn without thought or reason, his feet began to move. Step by step, he walked toward the white block, the soundless void swallowing each motion. He didn't question why. He simply moved.
With every step, the whiteness grew brighter, pulling him closer, closer still
He walked.
He didn't know for how long. Hours… days… weeks. Perhaps months. Perhaps years. Perhaps entire decades had passed, swallowed whole by the silence of the void.
Time had no meaning here. There was only the endless blackness stretching behind him, and the white light glowing ever brighter before him.
With each step, he felt himself changing. His thoughts drifted, his memories fading and then sharpening again. The weight of his old life blurred at the edges, yet the ache of his loneliness, his emptiness, remained like a scar on his soul.
Still, he walked.
He was drawn onward, step after step, toward the eternal white that seemed both impossibly near… and infinitely far.
At some point—though he could not say when—the distance between him and the light began to collapse. The glow sharpened, shapes taking form within its brilliance.
And then he saw it.
Floating in the endless void, cradled within the radiance, was a small island. Its surface was no bigger than a cottage yard, a patch of soft earth suspended in nothingness.
At its center stood a hut—simple, almost rustic. Its walls were weathered wood, its roof uneven, as though it had been plucked from some forgotten mountain village. A faint breeze stirred its single window, the shutters creaking open and shut as if breathing.
The door faced him. Waiting.
The boy froze at the edge of the light, staring at the hut adrift in eternity. Something about it felt impossibly familiar, though he knew he had never seen it before.
It was not threatening. Nor was it safe. It was simply... there.
And it was calling to him.
He took a hesitant step onto the floating island, the void whispering silently behind him. The ground beneath his feet felt solid, though he knew it couldn't be real.
Slowly, he approached the hut. The closer he came, the heavier the air felt, as if the very light around the house pressed against his skin.
Finally, he stood before the weathered door. For a long moment, he simply stared at it—his heartbeat loud in his ears, though he wasn't sure if he even had a heart here.
Then, with a breath he didn't need, he lifted his hand. An imaginary hand, in an imaginary world, yet the action felt weightier than anything he had ever done.
His fingers brushed the handle.
Click.
The latch turned beneath his grip, and the door creaked open into the glow with a sound that felt more like a memory than an actual noise.
As the door creaked open, a flood of golden light spilled outward, forcing him to flinch and shield his eyes. The brilliance burned for a moment, then softened, allowing him to see.
Inside the hut, the air was warm and still, carrying the faint scent of old wood and paint. At the center of the single room stood a towering canvas, its surface alive with colors that seemed to shift and breathe.
An old man sat before it, brush in hand, his strokes deliberate, almost ritualistic. His back was turned, shoulders slightly hunched as though the weight of centuries pressed upon him. The bristles whispered across the canvas, leaving trails of light instead of paint.
The boy stood frozen at the threshold. He could see only the side of the man's face, weathered and lined, but his gaze never left the unfinished painting.
The silence was heavy, broken only by the steady rhythm of brush against canvas
He stepped forward cautiously, each footfall echoing in the silence of the hut. The closer he drew, the clearer the figure became.
At first, the old man was just a silhouette against the glow of the canvas. Then, as he reached the middle of the room, the face turned slightly toward the light… and the boy's breath caught in his throat.
It was a face he knew. Not from his life, but from countless comics, interviews, and films. A face etched into the legacy of stories themselves.
The man before him looked exactly like Stan Lee—the creator, the storyteller, the one who had imagined an entire universe of heroes and gods.
Wrinkles framed his warm, knowing smile. His glasses glinted with the same mischievous spark seen in a hundred cameos. He wasn't just an old man painting; he was the embodiment of Marvel's fiction itself.
For a heartbeat, the boy forgot where he was. Forgot the void, the island, the hut. He stood frozen, stunned, staring at the impossible.
Stan Lee kept painting, his brush gliding with gentle strokes across the canvas. Only then did he finally speak, his voice carrying the weight of countless stories, yet as soft as a grandfather's lullaby:
"Took you long enough, kid."
And stan Lee chuckled softly, setting his brush down beside the canvas. Without a gesture, without a word, a wooden chair shimmered into existence just a few feet away from him.
"I thought you'd show up sooner," he said, his voice calm yet tinged with amusement. "But no matter… you're here now. That's what counts."
The boy hesitated, his eyes darting between the glowing canvas and the old man's familiar face. Slowly, almost against his will, he stepped forward and lowered himself into the chair.
For a long moment, silence hung between them, filled only by the faint scratching of the brush against the drying paint. Finally, the boy's voice cracked through the stillness.
"Who… who are you? And why am I here?" His brows furrowed. "And why do you—" he swallowed, his throat tight, "—why do you look like Stan Lee?"
The old man smiled knowingly, adjusting his glasses with a slow, deliberate motion. His eyes, though ancient, gleamed with the vibrance of a thousand untold stories.
"Now that," Stan said with a mischievous grin, "is a very good question."
Stan Lee patted the empty chair gently, his smile patient.
"First, come and sit," he said, his voice as calm as a placid lake. "I'll give you the answers you're looking for."
The boy hesitated for a moment, then moved closer, lowering himself onto the chair. As he sat, a feeling he hadn't known in years washed over him. The tension in his chest eased. His racing thoughts slowed. He didn't understand why, but being near this old man made him feel safe. A profound sense of security, a warmth he had only ever imagined a grandfather might give, radiated from him.
The boy found himself obeying instinctively, almost without thought, as though this man's presence carried a natural, effortless authority.
Stan leaned back slightly, folding his hands over his cane, his eyes ancient but twinkling.
"Good," he said with a nod. "Now, let's talk.
Stan lifted a finger, the corners of his lips twitching into a half-smile.
"I know you've got a storm of questions rattling in that head of yours," he said gently. "But first—listen. Then ask."
The boy opened his mouth, ready to protest, but the gentle firmness in the old man's tone stilled him. It wasn't commanding or harsh—just firm, like a teacher who knew exactly what lesson came next.
Slowly, he nodded. "…Okay."
Stan's eyes twinkled at the gesture, as if pleased with the answer. He turned back toward the canvas, tapping the wooden frame with the tip of his brush before continuing.
"Good."
Stan's brush moved with steady strokes, colors flowing across the canvas as though the paint itself obeyed his will. He didn't look at the boy as he spoke, his gaze staying fixed on the painting.
"I know what you're thinking," he began, his voice calm but layered with meaning. "You recognize me. From your world—the comics, the movies, the cameos."
The boy stiffened in his chair. His pulse quickened.
Stan dipped his brush again, his voice a steady continuation, as if he were simply narrating the air. "But here's the truth… I wasn't just telling stories." He gave a soft, wistful chuckle. "I was bored. So I wandered. And when I came to your plane, I told the tales of what I'd seen, what I'd touched, what I'd… created."
The boy's eyes widened, breath catching in his throat. His hands curled against his knees.
"You mean…" he whispered. "Marvel… wasn't just fiction?"
Stan finally turned to him then, and in the golden glow of the hut, his smile looked both kind and impossibly ancient.
"Kid," he said softly, "every story's real somewhere."
The boy's mind reeled. The shock of it crashed through him like a physical wave. Everything he thought he knew—comics, heroes, fantasy—had just been torn open, ripped from its very foundations.
Stan dipped his brush one last time and set it gently aside. His gaze softened as he looked directly at the boy for the first time.
"I also know what it is you truly want," Stan said, his voice deep with certainty. "That's why I brought you here."
The boy blinked, confusion and awe battling in his chest.
Stan leaned forward slightly, his tone carrying the weight of a choice that could not be undone. "I'll give you a second chance, kid. A chance to live again. Whether you use it to interfere… to change the course of things… or whether you live a quiet, ordinary life… that choice is yours."
The words struck him like lightning. His mouth went dry, his heart thundered in his chest. He didn't understand it fully—not yet—but a happiness he had never known flickered inside him, fragile and bright, like the first spark of dawn after an endless night.
The boy sat in silence for a long while, his eyes lowered, his mind storming. All the revelations, all the choices—they crashed over him like a tidal wave.
Finally, he lifted his head. His voice was quiet, but steady. "I only have one question," he said. "If you give me this second chance… will I have full freedom? Will I be able to make my own decisions?"
Stan studied him carefully, then smiled—the kind of smile that carried both pride and sadness.
"That's the only question worth asking, kid," he said softly. "Yes. The choice will always be yours."
The boy's chest tightened with a powerful sense of relief. He swallowed hard, his eyes glistening as he nodded.
"Then… yes, Mister Stan Lee," he said, a nervous, almost reverent laugh escaping him. "Or—sir… god… whatever you are. I don't have any other questions."
Stan's chuckle filled the room, warm and knowing, echoing with a thousand stories.
"Good answer."
Stan's warm chuckle faded into the silence of the hut. He gave the boy one final, knowing smile.
"Now, go," he said, his voice a quiet whisper. "Live your life fully."
And with those words, the golden light of the hut blinked out.
Then came the darkness. the end