Author's note: Hello readers, it my first time writing something and english not my first language so there might be error d'ont hesitate to point it. I hope you will like it, leave a comment and have a good time.
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I'm dead… at least, I think I am. To be perfectly honest, the memory is a bit blurred, like a photograph left out in the rain until the edges bleed into nothingness. I can't even recall who I used to be. My name, my face, the sound of my own voice—it's all gone, dissolved into this vast, echoing nullity. I've been drifting in this void for a while now… if you can even call it "drifting"? There is no current here, no wind, no gravity to pull me in any direction.
I have no sensations. I don't think I even have a body anymore. There is no cold, no heat, no itch of skin or ache of bone. And yet, strangely enough, the archives of my mind remain partially intact. I still remember the books I devoured, the series I binged until three in the morning, the movies that once made my heart race. These stories are the only anchors I have left in an ocean of nothing.
The only thing that has kept me sane until now is the sound of my own internal monologue. I talk to myself constantly, repeating the old mantra like a prayer: I think, therefore I am. As long as the words keep flowing, I exist.
Curiously, I am calm. I should be screaming, shouldn't I? Logically, it's because I lack a physical form. No body means no brain, and no brain means no hormones to trigger the chemical cascade of panic. I might have felt something at the very beginning—a fleeting shiver of dread that vanished as quickly as a spark in the night—but now, there is only a vast, silent equilibrium.
After an indeterminate amount of time, I feel it: a presence. It's not fear, nor is it a physical warmth. It's a different kind of awareness, a "something" that is distinctly not me, existing in this void like a single point of light in an absolute darkness.
At first, I'm convinced I'm imagining it. After all, it's been… a long time. Long enough for my mind to start weaving phantoms out of the silence just to fill the gaps.
But no.
This presence doesn't fade. It doesn't flicker like a dying thought or a hallucination. It is stable. It is heavy. It is real.
Then, slowly, the fabric of the "nothing" begins to shift. The void around me seems to… react. It's as if space itself is folding gently, imperceptibly, making room for something new. There is no defined shape yet, but there is organization. There is intent. I can't truly "see" in the traditional sense, but I understand with a crystalline certainty that something is now standing—or existing—right in front of me.
A long silence follows. Or perhaps the silence has always been there, and I'm only just noticing its weight.
Then—
"You are still here".
The voice isn't a sound. It doesn't travel through air or vibrate against eardrums I no longer possess. It manifests directly within the center of my consciousness. It is calm. Measured. Entirely devoid of judgment.
I remain motionless. Observing. Or at least, trying to focus my formless attention on the source.
"This is… interesting," the voice resumes, tinged with a faint note of reflection. "Most dissipate much faster than this".
I don't know why, but that sentence anchors me. It gives me a context, a place in a hierarchy I didn't know existed. Most. That means I'm not the first one to drift through this cosmic waiting room.
"I suppose you have questions," the voice says. There's a slight pause, a ripple in the psychic air. Then, almost immediately: "Or perhaps there isn't enough of 'you' left to formulate them clearly".
There is no mockery in the tone. It is a simple, clinical observation.
I concentrate. I pull at the threads of my remaining self, trying to weave a coherent thought. It's exhausting, as if thinking now requires a physical effort I can no longer ground in muscle and bone.
Why am I still here?
The question doesn't leave my "lips," but it resonates through the void. It is understood.
A beat of silence follows. Then:
"Normally, depending on the laws of the specific universe, several options exist. The most common outcome corresponds to your case: the soul follows a 'path' during which it is… scrubbed. It loses its memories, its quirks, its very identity".
A brief, heavy pause.
"However, it occasionally happens that a soul loses its way… or simply stops moving along the path".
Another moment of stillness.
"That is what happened to you".
The presence pauses again, as if checking its own records.
"This was not intended for you".
Silence. Total and absolute.
"But," the voice continues, softening slightly, "it is not a problem".
"You, however… you remained".
I'm not sure if that's meant to be a compliment or a warning.
"In this type of situation, two options are available to you".
The void feels like it's holding its breath.
"Either I place you back on the initial path… with a slight advantage".
A pause.
"Or… you choose an entirely different direction".
And what is… this other direction?
I don't know how, but I project the question with everything I have left, hoping the sheer force of my will is enough to bridge the gap.
A moment passes. Then another.
The silence isn't truly different from what came before, and yet, the atmosphere has changed. It's as if my question left a physical mark, a lingering tension in the empty space. For a flickering second, I wonder if I've made a mistake. If asking was premature… or perhaps entirely useless.
Then the presence reacts.
Not abruptly, but with a sense of deliberate movement.
"No… I was simply considering how best to answer you," the voice says, its tone almost reassuring.
The words feel weighed, selected with surgical precision.
"What I call 'the normal path' is… structured. It leads to a new existence with pre-defined parameters. The 'little bonus' I mentioned is quite basic—something like a perfectly healthy body. A few adjustments to the settings, and you're on your way".
A slight pause.
"What I am offering you is different".
The void around us shifts again. It's subtle, nearly imperceptible, but this time I feel it deep within whatever constitutes my "core". It's like the feeling of the air pressure dropping before a massive storm. Something is being prepared.
"A different direction means stepping outside of the established framework. It means not following a pre-set flow, but embarking upon another. One that is less stable. Less… supervised".
A short, sharp silence.
"With significantly more uncertainty".
I take a moment to process this. Well, "taking a moment" is just a figure of speech when time has no meaning, but I let the concept sink in.
More uncertainty.
Which means more risk. But it also means… more freedom?
Why offer this to me?
Once again, the thought isn't spoken, but it is heard. This time, the answer comes faster.
"Because you remained".
Simple. Direct. Unflinching.
"The vast majority of consciousnesses do not persist long enough to allow for this kind of divergence".
A pause.
"Therefore, in cases like yours, there is a specific protocol. That is what I am presenting to you".
Before I can even begin to shape my next question, the presence continues:
"And understand this: what I am offering is not a 'gift'. It is an opportunity. It carries constraints… and it carries consequences".
The void seems to tighten around us. It isn't oppressive, but it becomes denser, more focused.
"If you choose this path, you will not follow a trail already blazed by others. You will create your own. But, since we cannot simply permit chaos, we utilize randomness. That is where the risk lies".
Silence.
Then, more softly: "And it all begins with a choice".
A sliver of doubt flickers through my mind. It's the first real "emotion" I've felt since… well, since forever. But it vanishes almost as soon as it appears.
The unknown is terrifying, certainly. But as the old saying goes: nothing ventured, nothing gained.