Part II, Peace
Evan Morrow leaned against the counter of the veterinary clinic, his gaze fixed on the clock. It was nearly 4 AM, and the silence of the night shift enveloped him like a thick blanket. Evan's life was a constant juggling act between his job as an overnight vet's assistant and his passion as a part-time guitar player for a local band. The band was always on the brink of making it big, or so Evan liked to believe. Tonight, after a high-energy concert, he had rushed straight to the clinic, trading his guitar for syringes and pet charts.
His car, a run-down relic that seemed to groan with fatigue every time he turned the key, was parked outside, a silent testament to the hard grind of his daily life. Evan's eyes, heavy with exhaustion, fought a losing battle against sleep. His short, tussled hair, a bit too long now, hung just over his eyes, adding to his disheveled appearance.
The clinic was unusually quiet. The soft hum of the fluorescent lights and the occasional rustle of the sleeping animals in the recovery area were the only sounds breaking the stillness of the night. Evan's head nodded forward, his chin nearly touching his chest, as he slipped in and out of a weary doze.
Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway, jolting Evan back to alertness. Dr. Ashton, the head veterinarian, appeared at the door, his expression a mix of concern and amusement.
"Evan," Dr. Ashton called out, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Mr. Morrow, why don't you just take the rest of the night off?"
Evan's head shot up, his eyes wide with surprise. He straightened up, looking around the clinic as if searching for some urgent task that might justify his presence. But Dr. Ashton just laughed softly.
"Evan, you look exhausted," Dr. Ashton said, his tone warm yet firm. "You've been putting in a lot of hours this week. It's a slow night, and honestly, there's not much left to do. Go home, get some rest."
Evan opened his mouth to protest, a reflex born out of a relentless work ethic. "I can stay, really, I'm fine. There might be—"
Dr. Ashton raised his hand, cutting him off gently. "Evan, it's fine. Take the night off. We all need a break sometimes, and you've earned it."
The mention of a break stirred something in Evan's thoughts. Chelsea, his girlfriend, would probably be thrilled to have him home early for once. A few extra hours in bed, a luxury he hadn't enjoyed in weeks, sounded like heaven. Lately, their time together had been fleeting, their schedules rarely aligning. Chelsea had been distant, and Evan couldn't blame her. His life was a whirlwind of commitments, leaving little room for anything else.
Dr. Ashton's voice broke through Evan's train of thought. "Do you need a ride home? Your car, well, it's seen better days."
Evan laughed, a short, tired sound. "No, no, I'm good. Just surprised, that's all. I can't remember the last time I left work early."
Dr. Ashton smiled, a twinkle in his eye. "Well, don't get used to it, Morrow. Now hurry up before I change my mind."
With a mock sternness, he waved Evan towards the exit. Evan nodded, a grateful smile tugging at his lips. He gathered his things, his mind already drifting to the comfort of his bed and the warmth of Chelsea's embrace.
As he walked through the empty clinic, Evan felt a weight lifting off his shoulders. The night, which had started as an endless stretch of tiredness and routine, was giving way to an unexpected respite. He pushed open the door, stepping out into the cool, early morning air. The sky was still dark, the stars fading as the first hints of dawn approached.
Evan climbed into his car, the familiar creaks and groans greeting him like an old friend. As he turned the key, the engine sputtered to life, a raspy symphony that marked the beginning of his journey home. The empty streets were bathed in the soft glow of streetlights, a peaceful world far removed from the chaos of his daily life.
The drive home was short, a blur of thoughts and reflections. Evan pondered over his relationship with Chelsea, the strain of their conflicting schedules, and the rare moments of intimacy they managed to steal. He thought about his band, their dreams of fame and recognition, a goal that seemed both tantalizingly close and frustratingly out of reach.
Pulling up to his apartment, Evan killed the engine and sat for a moment, the silence enveloping him once more. He thought about Dr. Ashton's kindness, a rare gesture in a world that often demanded more than it gave. It was these small acts of understanding and compassion that made the grind bearable, that injected a bit of hope into his hectic life.
Evan stepped out of his car, feeling the familiar ache in his muscles from the long night. He stretched, his arms reaching towards the still-dark sky, a routine attempt to shake off the weariness that clung to him like a second skin. With a sigh, he locked his car and headed towards his apartment, his mind still replaying the unexpected early end to his shift.
Everything about his return home felt routine, a well-trodden path he could navigate with his eyes closed. The familiar creak of the apartment door, the flick of the light switch, the soft thud of his shoes hitting the floor – all these actions were automatic, requiring no thought, no emotion. He poured himself a glass of water, the cool liquid a small comfort after the dryness of the night.
As he moved towards his bedroom, his mind was a blur of thoughts – the band, the vet clinic, Chelsea. He opened the bedroom door, expecting the usual scene – Chelsea, asleep, her gentle breathing a soothing rhythm in the dark room.
But tonight, the room held a sight that was far from normal. Evan froze, his heart slamming against his ribs, as his eyes took in the scene before him. Chelsea, her small frame so familiar, lay curled up in the arms of another man. The intruder lay on Evan's side of the bed, a large, tattooed arm wrapped possessively around her.
Neither of them wore tops, and the scattered clothes around the bed left little to the imagination. Evan's throat tightened, his mind struggling to process the betrayal laid bare before him. He wanted to scream, to shout, to unleash the storm of emotions that raged inside him. But his jaw barely moved, his voice a prisoner of his shock.
Numbly, Evan backed out of the room, his movements robotic. He put on his shoes, each action an echo of the normalcy that had been shattered in an instant. He closed the door to his apartment with a soft click, the sound absurdly gentle in the chaos of his heart.
Back in the car, Evan sat in the driver's seat, his hands gripping the steering wheel as if it were a lifeline. The rain began to fall, slow drops at first, then a torrential downpour, as if the sky itself was mourning his shattered world. But Evan didn't move. He simply stared at the steering wheel, his eyes unseeing, his mind a whirlwind of pain and disbelief.
"Six years," he thought bitterly, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. "Six years, for what?" Anger surged through him, hot and raw, a counterpoint to the cold betrayal that had seeped into his bones.
With a sudden movement, Evan turned the key in the ignition. The car sputtered to life, a reluctant ally in his escape. He slammed his foot on the gas, the car lurching out of the parking lot with a screech of tires. He had no destination in mind, no plan, no idea where he was going. All he knew was that he couldn't stay there, couldn't be anywhere near the ruins of what he had believed was his life.
The rain pounded against the windshield, a relentless drumming that matched the turmoil in his heart. The streets were empty, the world seemingly holding its breath as Evan drove aimlessly, his vision blurred not just by the rain but by the tears he refused to acknowledge.
The familiar streets of his neighborhood passed by in a blur, unrecognizable in the storm and his distress. Evan's mind replayed the scene over and over, each detail a fresh cut to his heart. Chelsea's hair spread across the pillow, the way her body fit so perfectly against the stranger's, the silent evidence of their betrayal scattered around the room.
He drove without direction, the city's lights a distant blur through the rain-soaked windows. The emptiness of the streets mirrored the hollowness he felt inside, a void where his future with Chelsea used to be. The life they had built together, the plans they had made – all of it felt like a cruel joke now.
In the tempest of his turmoil, Evan pressed the gas pedal further into the floor, his vision blurred not just by the tears that streamed unchecked down his face but also by the countless hours of driving through the relentless downpour. The memories of what had been, of a future he had once believed was secure, now seemed to swirl and clog his mind, a relentless reminder of dreams unceremoniously flushed away. He was aware of the danger, the reckless speed at which he was moving, but a defiant part of him didn't care. If the police pulled him over, so be it. What did it matter now?
The rain intensified, as if the heavens themselves were mourning his loss, or perhaps mocking his despair. The thought of what he and Chelsea had planned—marriage, a shared life—now seemed like a cruel joke. He questioned everything. Was it because he couldn't afford a ring? Was his incessant working, his dedication to a band that was always on the cusp of success but never quite there, to blame? No, these questions spiraled into a void, offering no solace, only further despair.
Evan had never been one for the spotlight, despite his undeniable talent with the guitar. He loathed the attention but craved the success it promised, the financial stability it could bring. Chelsea had been drawn to his music, to the magic he could weave with melody and lyrics. A bitter chuckle escaped him as he thought of the songs he might now write, the heartbreak and betrayal they would narrate. Perhaps he should call Morgan, share the…
But the thought shattered as abruptly as his focus. Exhaustion from the long shifts at the veterinary clinic, the energy expended at concerts, and the emotional turmoil of his discovery had taken their toll. Evan hadn’t even realized his eyes had closed, surrendering to the overwhelming desire for escape, for sleep.
His eyes snapped open, but only for an instant, in sheer panic as the car veered wildly. He hadn’t even noticed when he left the familiar road and merged onto the old coastal highway, slick with rain and shrouded in mist. The tires slid uncontrollably, the rear end fishtailing as if in protest against his reckless speed. The world outside became a blur of rain-soaked darkness.
Then, suddenly, the guardrails vanished, replaced by nothing but an open void. Evan barely had time to register the sharp turn he had missed. There was a split second of weightlessness as the car launched off the cliff, the ocean waves crashing against jagged rocks far below, faintly visible through the stormy haze. Time seemed to slow, each heartbeat echoing in his chest as the vehicle plunged downward, consumed by gravity's unforgiving pull.
For a brief, fleeting moment, everything was eerily calm. The roar of the ocean below, the rain, the chaos of his thoughts—they all fell silent as if the world itself had paused to witness his descent.
Then came the fall, and with it, the final plunge into darkness.
It was not the darkness of unconsciousness, nor the void of non-existence. It was a palpable, all-encompassing blackness where thought persisted without the anchor of a physical body. Evan was aware, terrifyingly so, but he was trapped in an abyss where movement, speech, and even pain were absent. It was as if he existed outside the bounds of time and space, hovering in a dimension where the familiar rules of life had ceased to apply.
His mind swirled in this unnatural stillness, grappling for any sense of self or reality. There was nothing to see, nothing to hear, no texture, no substance—only the oppressive nothingness. Panic set in, gnawing at his sanity. Was this death? Had he gone to some sort of hell or purgatory, stripped of all that made him human? He tried to cry out, but there was no mouth, no sound, only the echo of his own consciousness spiraling inward.
Then, in the oppressive void, something emerged—a faint glow like a flickering candlelight in the dark. At first, it was only a shimmer, a distant glimmer on the edge of his awareness, but it grew stronger, coalescing into form. Words—no, symbols—appeared before him, burning their presence into his mind. The characters were unfamiliar, ancient and esoteric, shifting and changing as if alive with their own energy. They hovered in the air, throbbing with an otherworldly force that made his thoughts ripple like disturbed water.
As Evan focused on the symbols, they began to morph, their meaning becoming clear, though he could not explain how. It was as though some deep, forgotten knowledge within him had been stirred awake, like a muscle long unused suddenly finding purpose again. The characters became words, and the words took shape, their meaning crystallizing in his mind.
You are not alone.
The words rang in his consciousness, not spoken aloud but communicated in a way that transcended language. They echoed with a whispered truth that resonated through the void, shaking him to his core. He had never felt so vulnerable, so exposed. Something—no, someone—was there with him, watching him, guiding his thoughts toward revelation.
As he grasped the meaning, more lines of text scrolled into view, carving themselves into the abyss around him like fire etched into the night. An unseen presence filled his consciousness, solemn and unwavering, speaking not with words but with meaning, a voice that seemed woven into the very fabric of existence itself.
You have been marked by forces beyond death. A soul not your own has sought passage through your vessel, and now your fates are intertwined. You stand on the precipice between realms, a Harbinger of Peace, yet peace is far from your grasp.
Evan’s mind raced, trying to comprehend what was happening. Another soul? He had died—hadn’t he? The memories of the cliff, the crash, his death, all returned like jagged shards of glass slicing through his consciousness. But this wasn’t death, not in any way he had ever imagined. This was something else—something unnatural. A spirit, a foreign entity, had latched onto him, drawn to his transition, forcing its way into his body in a bid for survival.
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As the sacred words continued to unfurl before him, they offered explanations, but none that provided comfort. The voice was maddeningly cryptic, speaking in riddles and enigmas.
Two souls now dwell within you, one born of this world, the other a wanderer. The one who fled Udanara sought refuge within you, a vessel it cannot control, yet it remains. Neither fully claimed the body.
The battle for dominance has begun, and your place in this world depends on your will to endure.
A surge of panic rushed through Evan as the words became clear. His body—his very being—was no longer his own. Another consciousness, another soul, had been forcibly melded with his own, and now they were locked in a struggle for control. The world he had once known seemed distant and irrelevant in the face of this revelation.
He could feel it now, the presence of the other soul. It was not a physical sensation, but something deeper, more primal. It was as though his very essence, the core of his identity, was being pushed and pulled, twisted and warped as this foreign entity sought to claim what was his. His memories, his thoughts, his sense of self—they flickered and wavered as the invading soul pressed against him, trying to seep into the cracks of his mind like a poison.
Evan fought back, grasping at the fragile threads of his own consciousness. He would not let this happen. He would not be consumed. He focused on himself, on his memories, his name, his life—anything that could ground him in reality. But it was a losing battle. The foreign soul was relentless, gnawing away at the edges of his mind with a hunger that could not be sated.
Harbinger of Peace, the sacred text proclaimed once more, though Evan found no solace in the title. There was an irony to the words, a bitter twist of fate. Peace? How could there be peace when his very soul was at war? The power that now flowed through him was not one of tranquility or balance—it was tied to death, to transitions, to the boundaries between life and the void. He could feel it, like a dark energy lurking beneath the surface, ready to burst forth and consume everything in its path.
And yet, his title was "Peace." Was it a cruel joke, or was it an omen of something far more complex? He didn’t know. He could only cling to the hope that he could still be himself—that he could win this unseen war and make sense of the power now buried within him.
Time held no meaning here. Seconds, minutes, hours—it was all a blur of thought and struggle. Evan’s mind was assaulted by wave after wave of pressure from the foreign soul, the intruder that sought to claim his body as its own. He could feel it inside him, like a parasite wriggling deeper into his consciousness, twisting his thoughts, distorting his perceptions.
It spoke to him, not in words but in feelings, emotions, flashes of memories that were not his own. He saw glimpses of another world, a place of shimmering light and shadow, where beings of immense power moved between the realms with ease. He saw Udanara—a vast, sprawling land filled with ancient structures, towering spires that pierced the heavens, and beings whose forms defied comprehension. The invader had come from there, fleeing from something, seeking refuge in Evan’s dying body.
But why? Why him?
The answer was elusive, buried deep within the cryptic words of the sacred text. He had been chosen, not by fate, but by circumstance. The soul had latched onto him in his moment of death, drawn to the transition between life and the void. It was a creature of survival, seeking to prolong its existence by any means necessary. And now, it was trapped with him, just as he was trapped with it.
The struggle for dominance was constant. Evan could feel the foreign soul pressing against him, trying to slip into his thoughts, to twist his memories, to bend his will. It was a battle of attrition, a test of endurance. Every moment was a fight to maintain control, to hold on to his identity.
But he was growing weary. The pressure was relentless, unyielding. It gnawed at him, wearing him down like water eroding stone. His thoughts became scattered, his memories fragmented. Who was he? Evan… Evan who? The name seemed distant now, a faint echo in the vastness of the void. He clung to it, but it was slipping away, like sand through his fingers.
The foreign soul was stronger than he had anticipated. It pushed harder, forcing him to the brink of surrender. His mind was teetering on the edge, ready to collapse under the weight of the invader’s will.
But then, in the depths of his despair, something shifted.
Evan felt a surge of energy, a pulse of power that radiated from deep within him. It was not from the foreign soul—it was his own. He could feel it now, the power that had been awakened within him, the energy that had been lying dormant, waiting for the right moment to rise. It was tied to the void, to the boundary between life and death, to the realms that existed beyond the physical world.
He grasped onto it, pulling the energy into himself, letting it flow through him like a river of light. It filled him with a renewed sense of strength, of purpose. This was his power, his birthright. The foreign soul might have sought refuge within him, but it could not claim what was his.
Embrace the struggle, Harbinger, for it is only through conflict that peace is forged.
The sacred text echoed in his mind, the words taking on a new meaning. Peace was not the absence of conflict—it was the result of it. The power that lay within him was tied to that struggle, to the balance between life and death, between realms. He was a Harbinger of Peace, but peace was not given freely. It had to be earned, forged in the fires of conflict and struggle.
Evan could feel the foreign soul pushing against him once more, but this time, he was ready. He pushed back, drawing on the power that now flowed through him. The energy of the void surged within him, filling every corner of his being with a strength he had never known before.
The foreign soul recoiled, its presence retreating as Evan asserted his will. He was not just a vessel—he was a force in his own right, a Harbinger of Peace, and he would not be so easily overcome.
Suddenly, the darkness faded.
The transition from the suffocating darkness to the sudden brightness of the world was so abrupt that it nearly paralyzed Evan. He lay there, half-buried in soft, loamy earth, staring up at a sky so painfully blue it seemed to mock the confusion tearing through him. Wisps of white clouds drifted across his vision, a serene scene entirely at odds with the panic bubbling up inside him.
"No rain, at least," he muttered, his voice rough and gravelly. But something was off. His words didn’t echo the way they should have. They sounded strange—hollow, like someone speaking from the bottom of a well. A dull, electric fear coiled tight around his chest. "This can’t be real. I’m dead. I have to be. That cliff… there’s no way I walked away from that."
Except he hadn’t walked away, had he? As he tried to push himself up, he realized he wasn’t lying on top of the earth. He was in it, his limbs half-submerged in the cool, damp dirt. He groaned, more out of irritation than fear. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a dream, and if it was the afterlife, someone had really messed up the logistics.
He braced himself and gave an experimental tug to free his right arm, only to feel a stiff resistance. The earth clung to him like it wasn’t quite ready to let go. "Oh, come on," he grumbled, digging his skeletal fingers into the ground with a rasping scrape. With a bit more effort, he yanked his arm free, sending a clod of dirt scattering across his chest.
Evan scowled, or at least he thought he did. Without skin, he couldn’t really tell what expression his face was making—if it was making anything at all. "Really? This is how it starts? Dragging myself out of the dirt like some low-rent zombie?"
His left arm was still buried to the elbow. He tugged again, harder this time, and felt a satisfying snap as the earth finally gave way. "About time," he muttered, flexing his bony fingers, watching them clack against each other as loose dirt dribbled down between them.
Next came his legs, and of course, they were just as stuck. He grumbled as he twisted and wrenched himself free, feeling the earth reluctantly release its hold on his skeletal frame. Every movement was awkward, his joints creaking and grinding like rusty old hinges. "For the love of—" he snapped, giving one final heave as both legs came loose at once. He tumbled forward onto his knees, dirt cascading off him in little avalanches.
Panting out of habit, though he lacked lungs to fuel it, Evan stayed crouched for a moment, just trying to make sense of everything. He caught his breath—or tried to, again purely out of force of habit—and then slowly pushed himself upright, limbs stiff and reluctant to cooperate.
"Right. Great. Up and… alive? Dead? Whatever," he muttered, brushing the dirt off his ribcage. As the dust settled, the full weight of his situation hit him again. He glanced down at himself, seeing not skin or muscle, but bones. Stark, bare bones wrapped in what looked like decayed, ancient bandages. Some kind of moss had attached itself to his frame, giving him the distinct look of a long-abandoned graveyard relic.
A bitter laugh escaped him, sounding like a hollow rattle. "This has got to be some kind of cosmic joke. I’m a fucking skeleton?" He held up his hands, his bony fingers waggling in disbelief. "Yeah, not a fan. Definitely not a fan."
He looked down at his feet—no shoes, of course. Just skeletal toes half-buried in the dirt, caked with mud and debris. The sight was so absurd he let out another sharp laugh, but it was hollow, devoid of any real humor. "Shit, I’m literally pulling myself out of the ground like some rejected horror movie prop."
Finally, he stood, swaying slightly as he got his bearings. Each step he took was an exercise in surrealism—his bare bones clicking softly against the dirt, like wind chimes clattering in a breeze. His rags, once maybe some form of clothing, hung from him in loose tatters, waving as he walked. He stared down at his ribcage and, sure enough, he could see straight through it to the other side. "Well, there’s something you don’t see every day," he muttered with a shake of his head.
Pulling himself out of the ground had been ridiculous enough, but now that he was fully upright, the strangeness of the world around him hit in full force. The trees—massive, ancient things—towered overhead, their trunks as wide as houses, their tops lost somewhere far above in the vast sky. It was both beautiful and eerie, an alien landscape that didn’t feel like any forest he’d ever known.
A dirt path stretched before him, worn down from what could have only been wagon wheels. As if to prove the point, a wagon was just disappearing over the horizon, its outline blurred by speed and distance. It looked old-fashioned, like something from a fantasy novel, which made about as much sense as everything else.
Evan tried to focus, but his gaze kept returning to his skeletal frame. It was too much. He let out another strained laugh, the sound dry and hollow. "This is just… beyond ridiculous," he said to no one in particular. "I’m literally dead, right? This has to be some kind of purgatory for people whose lives were so pathetic even death doesn’t want to deal with them."
The absurdity of his situation—the skeletal body, the strange forest, the distant wagon—it all felt like some cruel joke at his expense. Rising from the dead hadn’t given him purpose or revelation. It had just dumped him in the middle of nowhere with nothing but bones and moss for company.
He looked down at his feet again, the soft clack of bone against dirt the only sound in the stillness of the forest. "Fantastic," he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I’m in some kind of twisted afterlife, and all I’ve got to show for it is a bunch of moss and a skeleton body that shouldn’t even be standing."
He staggered forward, his movements still awkward and stilted. "Yeah, this is like something out of a bad game," he said, half to himself. "Any minute now, someone’s going to jump out and tell me I’m on some intergalactic hidden camera show, right?"
But no one appeared. The world around him remained silent, indifferent to his plight. The wagon was long gone, the forest as quiet as it had ever been. He was alone, truly and utterly alone, a skeleton wandering through a world that made no sense.
Evan let out a long, hollow sigh—out of habit, not necessity—and trudged forward, every step feeling heavier than the last. If this was the afterlife, it was a cruel one. And if it wasn’t… well, it wasn’t much better.
All he could do was keep walking, because what else was there to do?
"Alright, Evan, think. You've got... bones. What's next? Do I get a manual? Some sort of guidebook for the recently deceased and inexplicably animated?" He spun around, half-expecting to find an instruction manual lying on the path behind him. But there was nothing, just the endless stretch of dirt road flanked by the towering trees.
"Of course not. That would be too easy. Instead, I get to figure out how to be a walking, talking skeleton in a world that looks like it's straight out of a fantasy novel. Great. Just great."
With a sigh that echoed oddly in his hollow chest, Evan started down the path. Each step carried him further into the unknown, a lone skeleton seeking answers in a world that seemed as bewildered by his presence as he was by its.
"Let's just hope there's a friendly necromancer or something around here. God knows I could use a guide. Or at least someone to explain why the fuck I'm a literal walking skeleton." The words lingered in the air, a sarcastic prayer to whatever powers might be listening. If there was a higher power at work in this strange new reality, it remained silent, content to let the Harbinger of Peace wander aimlessly along the path, a forgotten soul lost in the vastness of the cosmos.
"Harbinger of Peace," Evan spat, "that sounds like some pretentious title from a fantasy game. How did I even end up with this... class? Race? And what exactly does it mean?" He shook his head, the clack of his bones echoing in the forest. "None of this makes any sense. How am I breathing?" He sucked in a deep breath, the action automatic, despite his lack of lungs.
"Fuck," he exhaled, the word a soft whisper in the silence. "None of this makes any goddamn sense."
Evan trudged down the trail, a hollow echo in his chest where his heart used to beat. He knew he had died. He remembered it all too clearly—the veering off the cliff, the sickening lurch of the car as it went airborne, the moment of weightlessness before the driver’s side slammed into the rocky beach below. The stormy night had raged around him, the sky fractured between thick clouds and fleeting glimpses of stars. He could recall every detail, even the way the rain had streaked across the windshield just before the fall.
But what had come after? That was the part he couldn’t grasp. One moment he was watching the world crumble beneath him, feeling the bone-crushing impact about to end him. Then… he woke up here.
Here, as a fucking skeleton. No transition, no blinding light, no out-of-body experience—just him, standing in this strange forest, his flesh gone, replaced by bone, and yet somehow still alive. It made no sense, but he had long given up on finding logic in it. He was both dead and alive, a cruel paradox that he couldn’t untangle.
A dry chuckle rattled out of his jaw. That’s how he felt mentally too—alive and dead all at once. Empty inside, hollow, as if the life he’d once had didn’t even belong to him anymore. He looked down at his skeletal hands, the bare bones clicking softly as he flexed his fingers. There was no flesh to feel, no nerves to send signals to his brain, yet somehow, he could still sense the world around him. Every step on the dirt path reverberated through his bones, each clack against the earth a reminder of what he’d lost.
Not that he had much to lose. Let’s be real. His girlfriend had been cheating on him for who knows how long—Chelsea, with her promises of a future, her sweet words that turned out to be lies. His band? A joke. They’d never had a shot, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise. And his job—what a joke that was. A vet’s assistant. Not even the vet. Cleaning up after animals, doing the dirty work, always one step behind someone else’s life. Never his own.
A sigh escaped him, though it was more a faint whistle of air through his empty skull. He didn’t even have lungs to sigh with, but the gesture was automatic, a remnant of his former life that clung to him like a bad habit.
What was the point of it all? He hadn’t had a purpose back on Earth—what made him think he would find one here? This place, this strange forest with its endless path, felt like a mockery of everything he’d ever known. Alive but dead, walking but going nowhere. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was his punishment for something he wasn’t even sure he’d done.
The thought gnawed at him as he walked, the trail winding on through the trees. They loomed over him, ancient and towering, indifferent to his presence. The wind whispered through the leaves, but it carried no answers—only the soft sound of rustling branches, like the mocking laughter of the universe itself.
Why was he here? Was this some kind of cosmic joke? A hell for the lost and forgotten? He couldn’t even remember feeling anything at the end—no grand revelation, no peace, just… nothing. His life had meant nothing, and now this afterlife, if that’s what it was, seemed to be driving the point home.
He was a skeleton, wandering in an endless forest with no direction, no goal, no hope. There was no one waiting for him, no band of lost souls, no reunion with loved ones. Just him, bones and all, trudging forward because stopping meant acknowledging how utterly meaningless it all was.
Evan’s gaze drifted up to the sky, now visible through the thinning trees. The clouds were still there, hanging low and heavy, but no storm accompanied them this time. Just a dull, grey blanket that seemed to press down on him, smothering any thought of hope or redemption.
He had once dreamed of something more—music, love, a life that mattered. But now, all those dreams felt like distant memories, washed away by the tide of reality. He was nothing. He had always been nothing. And now, in this strange in-between, he was nothing still.
There was no epiphany here, no grand lesson to learn. Just the slow realization that his existence, whether in life or death, had been a futile endeavor. Chelsea, his band, his job—all of it had been a farce. And now, even in this new form, he couldn’t escape the hollowness that had followed him into death.
He kept walking because that was all there was left to do. His bones clacked against the ground, a rhythm that felt like mockery in itself—a steady reminder that, no matter where he went, he would never escape the emptiness inside him. No purpose, no meaning, just an endless road that led nowhere.
And maybe that was his punishment: not knowing. Not understanding why this had happened, why he was still walking, still existing in this half-life. Maybe the universe had decided he didn’t deserve to know. Maybe it was all just one final joke, and he was the punchline.
But whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Evan was dead, but he still walked. That was all there was to it.
And that was all there ever would be.