I’d love to tell you death is peaceful. That it’s warm, soft—as if some divine hand gently scoops you up, singing a lullaby and carries you off to whatever’s next.

You might wonder if there is actually anything beyond death. Well,  believe it or not, there is. The pearly gates, the fiery pits—all those things you laugh off as some cultist exaggeration? They’re real.

But to reach them, there’s this void. An eternal, pitless void. Maybe it’s all part of some greater scheme, one far beyond mortal whims. Nothing here is ever under mortal control, actually.

Not that I’d know much about it. But one thing I can tell you for sure:

Death is a liar. And a jerk. Worse than you can imagine.

It’s not warm, nor is it cold. It’s something worse. Far worse. Like your skin being stripped off while you’re still alive and salt and pepper rubbed into the naked, raw flesh. No… even that doesn’t quite compare.

Death is poetic, they say. Death is kind. Maybe we’re too insignificant to understand it.

But what I do know is this: Death comes for you when it’s time. It doesn’t care about your preparations, your pleas, or your bargains. And it’s damn good at its game.

The worst part? The ending. You don’t get to choose it. It chooses you.

---

A consciousness drifted in.

Is this it?

I thought it would feel... different.

More... permanent.

No heartbeat. No breathing. No feeling. Nothing but awareness.

Aware of a weight that couldn’t be named, pressing down on his very existence. Maybe it was the weight of existence itself.

Dark. Damp. Cold. Black.

Not the biting chill of winter but the damp, suffocating cold of something vast and unfeeling. It wasn’t peaceful, nor was it still. The darkness wrapped around him, stretching endlessly, pulling, consuming.

Or... was it still trying?

He couldn’t tell.

It was heavy and suffocating, like being buried alive without even the courtesy of a coffin. The cold seeped into him, coiling tighter and tighter as if it wanted to squeeze the very concept of ‘him’ into nothing.

And then—

He felt it— them.

Gnawing at the edges of his consciousness. Something primal.

Emotions. Sharp and jagged, tearing into him like knives.

Anger surged first, bitter and burning, searing through the void with the force of a tidal wave. Not a vague anger, but something personal, intimate, like an old, festering wound.

Who did this to me?

Hatred followed, or was it hatred all along? Thick and venomous, wrapping around him like a second skin. It wasn’t directed at anyone—yet. It was raw, directionless, consuming.

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And then came regret. 

Yes, regret. Worst of them.

It was an ache. A hollow, gnawing ache, relentless and unyielding.

It settled deep, burrowing into his very core, pulling him further into the abyss. It was a thousand whispers that wouldn’t quiet, a thousand weights he couldn’t throw off.

It whispered lies—or were they truths?—about what he’d done, what he hadn’t done, and all the things he’d never get to do.

It wasn’t just sorrow for lost moments; it was bitter, unshakable guilt.

Why didn’t I stop it? Why did I fight? Why didn’t I—

The questions buzzed like flies around a rotting corpse, but the answers... they dangled out of reach, proving ever elusive. 

And yet, he reached for them anyway, again and again. It was an instinct, a need to grasp at the fragments. To fix something. But every time he thought he was close, the answers slipped away, leaving only the bitterness of knowing he’d FAILED!

Failed at what?

Then silence.

Then they came again: anger, hatred, and regret. It coiled tightly around him like a noose. It burned, simmering beneath the icy void.

But regret for what?

Because I was killed? — what?

I was… KILLED?

His awareness trembled, I was killed.

The realization hit him like a dam. 

Why? Who? 

How?

Questions probed at his consciousness, but he couldn't remember.

For a fleeting moment, he thought maybe it was mercy—not remembering.

Until the cracks appeared.

They widened and spread like spiderwebs, delicate fractures splitting the darkness. They spread through him like veins of lightning, carrying a shock of pain—not physical, but deeper, sharper.

It tore at him, unraveling him piece by piece until his consciousness felt unwoven.

He wanted to scream. To claw at the void, to resist the judgment pressing down on him. But there was no body, no voice, no limbs. Just his raw and exposed awareness, forced to endure.

The cracks hastened.

Memories—or what he thought were memories—flashed across the fractures. Brief and fleeting.

A face. A laugh. A voice.

The sound of rain hitting the pavement. The bombardment of screams and shouts. The faint taste of lemon tea. A child.

A thousand more appeared, but this time dead.

The haunting whispers of someone. The searing pain on his back.

And the lingering fondness of a kiss still wet on his lips. 

Each burned as they passed, searing his existence and leaving him emptier than before.

But regret lingered, twisting the knife even deeper.

It wasn’t just the pain of the memories—it was the weight of knowing.

The weight of understanding he couldn’t change them.

The weight of realizing he didn’t deserve to.

And then something new happened.

Something louder than the cracks, the burning memories, the emotions.

A voice.

It came again, faint at first, barely more than a whisper.

Call?

Someone is calling? — But who?

The more he strained to listen, the clearer it got—until...

“Wilhelm.”

It cut through the void like a knife. Sharp and deliberate.

Something inside him recoiled. The name... He hated it, loathed the way it curled through the void and pulled at him.

It felt bitter.

“Wilhelm.”

The voice came again, louder this time, more desperate. And with it came a pull, like an invisible thread wrapping around him, dragging him toward something he couldn’t see.

The cracks spread faster now, each one splitting him open, tearing through the void with reckless abandon. Each new fracture brought flashes—faces, emotions, places—but none of it stayed long enough to make sense.

He was unraveling, breaking apart.

His consciousness drifted, waiting. Waiting for that call. And he heard it again.

“WILHELM!”

He remembered now.

It was his name. He was being called upon.

Light flooded in, searing and blinding, engulfing all the fragments along with the void.

And for the first time, Wilhelm remembered what it was like to see.

He wasn’t alone anymore.

And somehow, he knew—he just knew—he could open his eyes again.

So he did.