The golden haze continued to swirl around me, warm and alive with the sense of belonging that had anchored me in this strange, beautiful place. The sensation of drifting, of floating in its embrace, had become the rhythm of my existence—until I felt it. A sudden, overwhelming presence of love, more profound than anything I had experienced so far. It wasn’t just love. It was unconditional love—the kind of love that could only come from one place.

From a mother.

It hit me all at once, like a wave crashing onto a shore after years of being lost at sea. The love wrapped around me in a way that was so deeply familiar, so completely comforting, that I almost couldn’t process it. It wasn’t like the love I had felt from the golden light, from the universe itself—it was personal, intimate, as though it were meant only for me. It reached deep into my soul, filling every empty corner of my being with warmth, security, and belonging.

I have a mother again.

The realization struck me like a bolt of lightning. Somewhere, somehow, this love was from her—my mother. The very essence of the feeling was something I had longed for but had forgotten in the cold expanse of the void. The memory of my own mother, the way she used to hold me when I was a child, the way she whispered comfort to me in moments of fear or sadness—it all came rushing back. But this was different. This wasn’t a memory. This was now. This love was real, present, and flowing through me like a river of warmth and safety.

I tried to understand what was happening, but my thoughts were a jumble of emotions—joy, disbelief, and a sense of wonder that I couldn’t fully comprehend. Could it be that I was with her again, that this love was from the one person who had always been my anchor in life? But something was different. This wasn’t the mother I had known before. This was someone new. And yet, the love felt the same—deep, unwavering, and pure.

The warmth surged again, and with it came a flood of emotions that I couldn’t hold back. I could feel myself crying, sobbing, but not out of sorrow. No, this was a release of something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in what seemed like an eternity. I was crying because I was happy. Overwhelmingly, impossibly happy. For the first time since my death, since the endless torment of the void, I felt truly alive.

I belong. I’m not alone.

The love wrapped around me tighter, and I wanted more than anything to reach out, to hold onto this presence, to feel her close. I tried to lift my arms, tried to reach out to her, to embrace her. I wanted to hug her, to feel the solid warmth of her body, to be held again like a child held by his mother.

But I couldn’t. My arms wouldn’t move.

Confusion settled over me as I realized something was wrong. I was trying to hug her, but there was a barrier. Something was preventing me from reaching out, from touching her, from feeling the comfort of her arms around me. Panic rose briefly within me, but then I became aware of something else—a different sensation altogether. I wasn’t where I thought I was. I wasn’t in a place where I could simply move my arms or shift my body.

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I’m in her womb.

The realization was stunning. My awareness exploded with the truth, and in an instant, I understood everything. I wasn’t just feeling the love of a mother—I was inside her. I was a baby, not even born yet, floating in the warmth of her womb. The love I felt was real, but it was the love of a mother for her unborn child, a love so pure and unconditional that it transcended everything I had known.

The warmth that surrounded me wasn’t just an abstract feeling of love—it was the physical warmth of being inside her, cocooned in her body, completely safe and utterly cherished. I wasn’t just floating in some ethereal place—I was floating in the amniotic fluid of my mother’s womb, cradled in the beginning of life itself.

I tried again to reach out, to hug her, but I was limited by my tiny, forming body. My limbs were too small, too undeveloped to do anything but twitch and move in subtle, restricted ways. I wasn’t fully formed yet. I wasn’t ready to be born. But even in my limited state, I felt the overwhelming need to connect with her, to reach out in some way and let her know that I was here.

And then I realized something else.

I can hear her.

Her voice was faint, like a soft melody drifting through the waters that surrounded me, but I could hear it. She was speaking to me, whispering words of love and hope and dreams, her voice so gentle and full of tenderness that it made my heart swell with emotion. I could feel the vibrations of her words through her body, through the walls of the womb, as if the very sound of her voice was a lifeline between us.

She was talking to me as if I were already born, already alive and breathing. There was no hesitation in her words, no doubt that I was listening to her, even though I was still in the earliest stages of life. She spoke to me with the same love and certainty that only a mother could have, as if she had known me all her life and was simply waiting for me to join her in the world.

I focused on her voice, trying to make out the words. Slowly, they became clearer, more distinct, until I could hear her fully.

“Alexander,” she whispered, her voice laced with love. “I’m going to name you Alexander.”

Alexander.

The name rang through me like a bell, resonating deep within my soul. It wasn’t just a name—it was my name, given to me with love and care by the woman who carried me. The woman who would be my mother. The woman who already loved me more than I could possibly imagine.

“Alexander Alde,” she said softly. “My sweet boy, that’s who you’ll be.”

Tears filled my eyes again, even though I was just a tiny, developing child, not yet able to cry in the way I would once I was born. But I felt the emotions swell inside me, emotions that I could barely contain. The love in her voice was so complete, so absolute, that it filled every part of me. I was hers. She had named me, spoken to me, and in that simple act, she had claimed me as her own.

And I loved her. I loved her with a love that was unexplainable, uncontainable. It was the kind of love that only a child could feel for their mother—the kind of love that was pure, unconditional, and utterly profound. I didn’t need to know her face or her history to feel that love. I only needed to feel her presence, to hear her voice, and to know that she was there.

I was safe. I was loved. And I belonged.

The feeling of belonging washed over me in waves, soothing every frayed nerve, every raw emotion that had been exposed by the void and the darkness. All the suffering, all the pain, all the confusion—it was gone now, replaced by this overwhelming sense of love and protection.

I was in her womb, yes, but I wasn’t just a small, fragile creature. I was her child. And she loved me, even before I had opened my eyes, even before I had taken my first breath.

Time passed in a way that I couldn’t quite grasp. It felt both eternal and fleeting, as though the concept of time had become irrelevant in this sacred space. I floated in the warmth of her love, cradled in her voice, her words becoming the soundtrack to my existence. I could hear her laugh sometimes, a soft sound that made me feel like I was part of something bigger than myself—part of a family, part of a world I had yet to enter.

She would talk to me often, telling me stories, sharing her hopes for me, and dreaming aloud of the life I would live once I was born. Her words were a constant stream of love and encouragement, and I soaked them up like a sponge, feeling my soul expand with every syllable.

And through it all, I cried silently, overwhelmed by the love I felt for her. I had never known a connection like this before. It was as if my entire existence had led me to this moment, to this woman who loved me unconditionally, even though she had never seen my face.

Her love was my anchor, my light, my home.

And for the first time since I had died, I truly felt alive.