A soft, mechanical hiss pierced the silence. I could hear, but how was that possible? Hearing meant I was conscious, yet I was sure I had died. My mind was foggy and my thoughts muddled, but one memory burned clear like a spark in the night—I had said my goodbyes. Can the dead hear? No, no— that was an absurd thought. Although, it didn't change the fact I was still hearing.
Perhaps this was just a dream — one of those 'life flashing before your eyes' moments. Except for me, it was only auditory hallucinations, since I never really had a life...
That seems far too farfetched to be an accurate hypothesis.
At least I hope anyways.
I tried to prise my eyelids apart, yet a searing brightness forced them closed.
Focusing on myself, I was surprised to feel the slow rise and fall of my chest. The rhythm felt effortless. I couldn't recall a time where breathing hadn't been an arduous trial. A struggle of life and death. Strength seeped into my limbs: the heartbeat reverberating through my ribcage was solid, confident; my hands curled into fists without so much as a tremor; not a single cough racked my lungs.
Trying once more, I fought against the glare. Gradually, shapes materialized, forming a ceiling of unblemished argent silver.
I was lying in some sort of capsule. Sitting up, I surveyed the chamber beyond the device: silver walls veined with filigrees of gold, as if a forgotten epic had been woven into the metal. Apart from the device that held me, the room was eerily empty and still.
The device itself—cylindrical, crimson-lined, and glass fronted—held an uncanny resemblance to certain cryogenic stasis chambers from old science-fiction movies I'd watched with Dr Zane. That hiss—I realised—must have been the seal releasing.
I swung my legs out of the chamber. Walking felt strange—unfamiliar, yet somehow instinctive. Drawn to the glass door, I caught my reflection and studied my own appearance.
Gone were the pallid skin and sunken cheeks of illness. I was radiant—flawless. My dull brown eyes had been banished, replaced by iridescent pools of molten gold; my hair, once dark, now cascaded in a shock of snow-white. Beneath the immaculate, tightly fitted white suit, my frame was neither gaunt nor bulky—a perfect balance of lean strength and grace.
A door slid open behind me with a quiet sigh.
A woman stepped through, her gaze fixed upon the clipboard she cradled in her hands. Brown hair, rich as autumn leaves, fell in gentle waves, brushing her equally brown eyes. She moved with a quiet, deliberate grace—each step measured, as if rehearsed over countless centuries to achieve perfection.
Only when she reached the device did she avert her gaze. The colour drained from her face.
"Lord Caelus...?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "You're awake?"
The clipboard slipped from her fingers and landed with a muted thud. She lifted a trembling hand, brushing my cheek, as though afraid I was some sort of illusion.
"We feared you'd never wake!" she cried, then flung her arms around me. The scent of camellias—soft, sweet—blossomed between us.
Her excitement gradually ebbed as she seemed to become aware of our proximity to each other. She stepped back, a little sheepish. Seizing the moment, I said, "I'm sorry, miss, but I don't recognise you."
Or anything around here for that matter.
"I'm sure I wouldn't forget meeting someone as distinct as yourself if I had."
A blush swept across her cheeks. "L-Lord Caelus called me beautiful...?" She stumbled backwards, blinking rapidly. Then she managed, "What do you mean, you don't remember me, my lord?"
"That too! I don't know who this 'Lord Caelus' is either!" I admitted throwing my hands into the air helplessly.
Silence hung between us. She searched my face, looking for any hint of a joke. Slowly, confusion began to cloud the delight she had shown just moments ago.
The unfamiliar yet beautiful woman's presence suddenly shifted, as if a switch had been flipped somewhere in her mind. Her soft expression vanished, replaced by a sharper, more inquisitive gaze. Even the gentle autumnal air that seemed to surround her twisted into something colder—curious, calculating. She became like a scholar, intent on unravelling the world's mysteries.
"So, you remember neither me nor yourself, then?" she asked at last.
I shook my head.
"Gabriel? Michael? Raphael Azrael...?" A pause; she swallowed. "Lucifer?" Each name landed without resonance.
"I've never met any of them," I answered truthfully.
In all honesty, the names themselves were familiar—I'd be idiotic not to recognise them. Each one was reflective of an archangel from the bible. But why was she listing them as if I was supposed to have met them? And why on Earth is she calling me 'Lord?'
Her brows knitted. At last she drew a breath and offered a small, wry smile. "Forgive me. I'm Uriel.'
Her introduction only raised more questions than it answered. 'Uriel'—another name representing one of the archangels. Was she insinuating that these archangels weren't just myths of faith, but real, living beings?
"A pleasure to meet you, Uriel," I replied. My own voice startled me—I hadn't paid it much attention until now. The rasp and throatiness were gone, replaced by a smooth, commanding tone. It carried a confidence I wasn't even sure I possessed.
For some reason, Uriel spun away, coughing violently into her sleeve.
Alarmed, I reached to steady her, but for reasons unknown to me the gesture only worsened her conditions. When she recovered, she laughed weakly. "I'm fine, my lord—merely surprised is all."
Her expression turned thoughtful. 'As for your memory... I scarcely knew you could be harmed, let alone suffer amnesia. We'll have to consult the other archangels."
Her use of the word angels felt as careless as someone discussing the weather.
I glanced again at the silver walls, the pod, my unrecognisable reflection.
It was hard to even try and believe but...
Am I even in my own world any more?