Magnus
Death is odd. It's like being in a vegetative state—unable to move, taste, or touch—but at the same time, it's not. Somehow, I know I don't have a brain right now. I don't even have a body, and yet I'm conscious. It's not that I have brain function, so I somehow know what's happening. I just…am. I am somewhere, but at the same time, I am nowhere. It's a state of in-between. Did I not die? Yes, I did. I know I did.
Then how can I be aware, but not exist?
A body gone, but a consciousness still present. It's a perplexing thought that would sound ridiculous unless I look at it differently. Maybe consciousness is stored in the body, the body acting as a vessel. If the vessel is destroyed, does that mean the consciousness is destroyed, too? No, that doesn't seem right. Consciousness isn't the right word. If the body is a vessel, then what's left must be…the soul. So what I am now is my soul.
Not that this clears anything up. If anything, it only adds more questions. At least it proves one thing: the body and soul are separate. I wonder if those stories I read were true—about souls being collected and judged. When would that happen? Actually, how much time has passed? I'm not even sure I can feel time passing. I try to panic, but without a body, I can't even be sure I'm feeling anything at all. That's what makes it frightening. Usually, our brains use external and internal cues to sense time—the noises we hear, the strain in our eyes from staring at a screen. But here, in this soul phase, there's nothing—no way to tell if time even exists.
Amid my crisis, streaks of light begin to appear. It's like watching shooting stars, only I'm in the middle of them. I stare until my attention is drawn to a blinding light, engulfing everything. Without meaning to, I move toward it. The light swallows me whole, and then, I hear a voice.
"Welcome to the world, Magnus."