It began with a door.
Not an ancient portal forged from bone and whispers. Not a cursed gateway or a runic monolith.
Just a door. Mahogany, polished, with a brass handle and a doormat that read: "Wipe your soul."
Vespera stared at it.
"This is it?"
Liora nodded, equally baffled. "The directions were clear. Past the obsidian stream, left at the Sobbing Willows, and straight until you hit irony."
The door was irony incarnate. Especially the sign beside it:
WELCOME TO THE DEPARTMENT OF AFTERLIFE RECLAMATION AND SOUL REINTEGRATION (D.A.R.S.R.)Walk-ins accepted. Appointments discouraged. Screaming forbidden.
Vespera reached for the handle.
The door swung open before he could touch it, revealing a waiting room that looked like an accountant's office had collided with a haunted opera house. Ghostly receptionists sat behind translucent desks, flipping through forms that seemed to sigh with each page. A skeleton in a three-piece suit hovered past, holding a clipboard and muttering about overdue dream taxes.
"Take a number," croaked the spirit at the front.
A ticket machine—yes, one of those old, red meat-counter ones—sat by the entrance. Vespera pulled a slip.
NUMBER: 666
He glared at the ceiling. "Really?"
The receptionist shrugged. "Cosmic coincidence. Happens more than you'd think. Tuesdays are especially thematic."
They waited for hours.
Around them, the waiting room filled with the damned, the mildly inconvenienced, and one demon in a bathrobe holding a latte and humming ABBA.
"This isn't so bad," Liora said, flipping through a pamphlet.
SO YOU DIED. NOW WHAT? had an article titled Ten Tips for Not Getting Reaped Prematurely.
Another read: YOUR PHANTOM LIMBS AND YOU: A Beginner's Guide to Spectral Appendages.
A ghoul tried to sell them insurance. Vespera bought a plan out of curiosity. It covered spontaneous soul implosions but not metaphysical theft.
Vespera flipped through a magazine titled Afterlife Quarterly. It featured a cover story: "Top 10 Limbo Destinations for Lost Souls." One resort advertised bottomless despair buffets.
A bell dinged. "Now serving 666."
They stood. A door opened.
Inside sat a bureaucrat with four arms, a crooked monocle, and what appeared to be a taxidermied conscience mounted on the wall.
"Ah, Mr. D'Angelis," the creature said. "We've been expecting you. And Ms. Liora—back from the dead, again. Welcome to D.A.R.S.R."
The next three hours were a blur of paperwork.
"Do you have your original death certificates?"
"We were murdered."
"Ah, well, you'll need Form 12-B, sub-form D. We don't cover metaphysical homicides without a notary."
"We crossed into the Underrealm, paid the cost, and resurrected through mutual trans-temporal soul bonding."
"That's a 9-C with a 43-Addendum, possibly a 7-Oh-God-Why."
They filled out scrolls, contracts, forms on papyrus, and one questionnaire that was suspiciously written on the back of a pizza menu.
"Can't you just stamp something?"
"Sir, this is eternity. We take our time."
They were eventually escorted to the Arbitration Wing.
A thin demon with a headset and a Starbucks cup gestured them in.
"You'll be speaking with Arbiter Krang. He's been processing transcendental violations since the flood."
"The Noah flood?"
"No, the cafeteria flood. They still haven't fixed the leak."
Krang turned out to be a surprisingly chipper goblin in a suit three sizes too big. He had a rubber ducky on his desk and a bobblehead of Cerberus.
"Hi there! You've been flagged for a Class-E Emotional Reversal Violation, sub-code 1142-A: Love Triumphed Where It Shouldn't Have."
Vespera leaned in. "You're saying love is illegal?"
Krang flipped through a glowing binder. "Not illegal. Just...frowned upon. You understand, love destabilizes the cosmic balance. Leads to hope. Rebellion. Bad poetry."
Liora crossed her arms. "So what now? You annul our resurrection?"
Krang winced. "Oh no, that's way above my pay grade. I just issue warnings and assign mandatory counseling."
"Counseling?"
"There's a support group. You'll love it."
The support group met on Tuesdays.
They were ushered into a conference room with folding chairs, stale cookies, and a whiteboard labeled: SOULS ANONYMOUS.
"Hi, I'm Karen, and I remember three lifetimes."
"Hi Karen," the group droned.
"Hi, I'm Gregor. I tried to haunt my ex. Ended up stuck in a vending machine."
"Hi Gregor."
Vespera stood reluctantly. "I'm Vespera. Mafia kingpin. Rejected eternal law to bring my love back."
Silence.
Then applause.
"That's beautiful," Karen sniffled. "You're so brave."
Liora added, "We burned a tribunal."
Whistles.
Gregor offered cookies. "You two give the afterlife hope."
They shared. They listened. A banshee gave a heartfelt speech about learning to scream only at appropriate times.
A wraith wrote a limerick. A skeleton performed mime. There were hugs.
It was weird.
It was wonderful.
Then came the Audit.
Three flaming horsemen in pinstripe suits arrived. Each carried a briefcase and a smug expression.
"Mr. D'Angelis," said the tallest. "You're being audited for reality fraud."
"What does that even mean?"
"You restructured emotional entropy. Rewrote karmic algorithms. And—" he glanced at his scroll "—unauthorized miracle distribution."
"We just wanted to be together," Liora said.
"Oh, sweetheart," the horseman smirked. "That's the most dangerous wish of all."
He produced a pie chart labeled "Impact of Romantic Defiance on the Continuum." It was just a circle labeled "Bad."
Trial day arrived.
A grand courtroom in the Hollow Spire. A jury of regrets. A judge shaped like a thousand gavel-wielding arms.
Prosecution: a minor deity of paperwork.
Defense: Gregor, now a certified afterlife lawyer, with a degree printed on toast.
He stood confidently. "Ladies, gentlemen, assorted echoes of pain—I present not criminals, but pioneers. Love is not a glitch. It is a feature."
The courtroom gasped.
The judge slammed twenty gavels. "Sustained."
The prosecution argued from a podium that kept rearranging itself into a shrug.
After twelve hours and a brief recess for existential lunch, the verdict was read.
"In light of unique circumstance, precedent-shattering determination, and excellent cookies, we rule in favor of the defendants."
Cheers. Confetti. Karen fainted. Gregor cried.
They were granted a certificate:
OFFICIAL COSMIC REINTEGRATION AND EMOTIONAL VALIDATION PERMIT (O.C.R.E.V.P.)
Signed by the judge. Stamped by fate.
Valid until the next multiversal reboot.
The certificate came with a complimentary coupon for one free miracle and a sticker: I DEFIED DEATH AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS PERMIT.
They returned home with a renewed lease on existence.
Their door mat now read: "Love Lives Here."
And taped to their door, a note from Serik:
You broke death. You broke rules. Now you broke bureaucracy. I'm impressed. Also terrified.
P.S. The Mirror Tree asked for a raise.
They laughed. They held each other.
And somewhere, in the farthest corners of the Underrealm, a demon with a clipboard updated their status:
Reconciled. Funny. Possibly contagious.