The raindrops fell on the earth, forming a pool on the road.
The drops fell in front of my vision
I can hardly move my body after the impact.
My memory is hazy.
Only a dashing truck and my arm, trying to push two high-schoolers, were vaguely in place.
I can feel my vision blurring as thick red fluid spreads across the wet floor.
"Great! So this is it!"
The moment I closed my eyes, I found myself completely in a white plane.
"Hello!" I tried calling out to find someone.
My every step created ripples across the white painted water like a plane I'm standing on.
"Welcome!"
an etheral voice came from my back.
In front of me was a canvas.
A woman was painting on the canvas with
The art she was doing was so beautiful that I was captivated, and I began to stare too hard.
Colors flowed beneath her brush as if they were alive. They didn't sit on the canvas—they breathed. Each stroke carried weight, emotion, and intent. Mountains rose from a single line. Oceans deepened with a gentle curve. Even the empty spaces felt deliberate, as if silence itself had been painted.
I didn't notice when she stopped.
"Do you like it?" the woman asked.
Her voice was calm, carrying no echo despite the endless white around us.
"I…" My throat felt tight. "I've never seen anything like this."
She smiled faintly, the kind of smile that carried neither pride nor humility—only understanding.
"That's the art of life."
"Art of life?" I asked.
I took a step closer. The surface beneath my feet rippled again, white waves spreading outward. Only then did I realize the canvas wasn't resting on anything.
It was floating.
"What is this place?" I asked.
"A pause," she replied. "Between the last stroke and the next."
I frowned. "Am I… dead?"
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she lifted her brush and tapped the canvas lightly.
The image changed.
Rain fell.
A road appeared.
A truck.
A familiar arm—my arm—reaching out.
I looked away instinctively.
"That's how I died!!," I shouted.
falling apart.
"Is that all you think it was?" she asked.
I clenched my fists. "Just who are you?"
The woman finally turned toward me.
Her eyes were like unfinished sketches—soft, undefined, yet full of potential.
She has a beautiful face and silver hair as white as the canvas.
"Endings are overrated," she said. "What matters is whether the hand that holds the brush still wants to move."
I swallowed. "And if it does?"
She dipped her brush again.
"Then we give it a new canvas."
The white world began to shift.
The endless plane beneath us darkened, gaining color. Blues seeped in first, followed by greens and warm golds. The air changed—cool, fresh, carrying the scent of salt and grass.
The canvas expanded, stretching beyond its frame until it swallowed the horizon.
I felt my body grow lighter.
"Wait," I said. "Who are you?"
She paused, then smiled once more.
"Someone who hates unfinished stories.A god"
The light flared.
For a brief moment, I felt everything at once—pain, regret, longing, hope—before it all softened, fading as ink diluted with water.
I woke up to warmth.
Not the suffocating heat of asphalt or blood loss—but a gentle warmth, like sunlight resting on closed eyelids.
A breeze brushed against my skin.
I opened my eyes.
Blue sky.
White clouds are drifting lazily above.
I was lying on soft grass, listening to the sound of waves rolling in the distance. Palm trees swayed nearby, their leaves whispering as if greeting me.
An island.
Small. Peaceful. Isolated.
I sat up slowly, half-expecting pain.
There was none.
My body felt… light. Whole.
Alive.
I looked at my hands.
They were steady.
Unscarred.
On the shore, something caught my eye.
A simple wooden easel stood there, untouched by the wind. Beside it rested a blank canvas, pristine and waiting.
For some reason, my chest tightened.
I didn't know why—but I knew this much.
"just where the heck am i?"