"Mom… do grown-ups have nightmares too?" the child whispers, curling under the covers. The shadows in the corner twist as if they're alive.
"Yes. We do. But they're not like yours."
"Not scary? Then how can they be nightmares?"
"When you wake up from yours, you feel afraid, right?"
"Uh-huh." — She wipes the tears from the child's face.
"When we're older, nightmares don't always have monsters. Sometimes they just make us feel heavy. Quiet inside." She presses a hand to his chest.
"Then… can I still run to you when I'm older?"
The mother swallowed the truth. She knew her time was short. But she would not open the door to that lonely world for her child. So she smiled and told a gentle lie.
"Of course, my sweet angel."
Her words echo, fragile and warm — words I fear I'll never hear again.
…
I gasp awake, coughing hard. Were those… my memories? A nightmare?
My chest convulses, clawing for air that feels like it was never meant for me. Each breath burns. My eyes snap open—
And freeze.
Water surrounds me. Endless rivers twist and fold through the void, bending in ways that shouldn't be possible. They spiral toward a starry sky that stretches farther than I can see.
Is this heaven? Hell? Did I die?
I look beside me — and there it is. A reflection with my face staring back.
Black hair clings to my forehead. Piercing golden eyes. Pale skin that makes the dark around me look deeper. There's something hollow in my expression — the look of someone paused mid-nightmare, forced to keep watching.
"Well, I must've had good-looking parents, at least," I blurt into the empty air. The sound is absurd in this hollow place. For a second I laugh — a thin, hysterical sound — and the river answers with silence.
Then the laughter fades.
My mind folds, and pieces slip away. Faces blur. Names vanish. The harder I try to remember, the faster they dissolve. I reach out, fingers trembling, as if I could grab the memories back like loose pages — but they shred between my hands.
My heart hammers. "What is this place? This can't be real…" Panic grips me. I stumble back on my hands, scraping against the smooth, cold ground.
"What is this? Where—where are the walls? The ceiling? How can there be no end anywhere I look?"
My throat is dry. There's no way out. No escape.
What world is this? …What world? The word itself feels foreign. My thoughts stumble, and the cold in my body spreads.
I look up—and see it.
A tree.
No—something greater. Its trunk towers like a mountain, its roots lost in mist. Its branches stretch so far they blot out the stars. My breath catches. Is this… real?
I don't know if I'm trembling from terror or awe.
Red fruit dangles from the branches, glowing faintly. One breaks loose, falling soundlessly. It strikes the river below, and ripples burst outward like sparks. The current carries it away into the dark until it disappears among the stars.
A voice echoes inside me.
— Come.
My body doesn't wait for my consent. My hand presses to the trunk.
Light bursts out, searing. I cover my face, but the radiance pierces through. When I open my eyes—my breath stops.
Books. Hundreds — thousands — floating in the air around me, their pages fluttering though there is no wind. They hang suspended by wisps of silver fog, drifting between the branches like ghosts of knowledge. Some open by themselves, ink spilling and rewriting across their pages as if the words are alive. The tree hums — a low, resonant sound that vibrates in my bones.
I should feel wonder, but it borders on fear — beauty stretched just far enough to be unsettling. Every book seems to watch me back.
And then, through the glow, I see her.
A woman. Eyes blue like frozen lakes. Skin pale as snow. Her dress black, flowing as though woven from shadow itself. It clings, then melts into the air, weightless. Her hair falls like silk; her face is sharp, otherworldly and her figure would make any man fall for her.
"I'm…?" My voice shakes. My heart aches. "My name? Why can't I remember?"
Her gaze softens. "You don't look too good. Well, you've got a pretty face at least," she mutters, almost teasing, before shaking her head. "Forgive me — I can't imagine how scared and confused you are." She scratches her head, casual, almost human. "Alright. Let's start simple. I'm Uriel, and this is the Great Library of Akasha. You're standing on top of the tree you were just staring at."
"Akasha…" I repeat the word, but it feels empty. Meaningless.
Uriel smiles faintly. "Think of this place as a record. Every world, every life, every story ends up here." She picks up a book resting nearby and flips it open. "Even your nightmare might be written somewhere on these shelves."
How does she know about the nightmare…? I hesitate, then ask the question clawing at me. "Do you know why I'm here? Why can't I remember anything before this place?"
Uriel tilts her head, as if confused by the question. "Do you believe existence has an end?"
"At some point it has to, right?"
"Most would agree with you. They'd be wrong." She plucks a fruit from a branch. A knife flashes in her hand, silver reflecting the starlight. She cuts it cleanly in half.
The fruit doesn't bleed juice. It bleeds light. Tiny threads spill out, glowing and whispering like voices carried on the wind. Then the light fades.
Uriel holds out the halves. "What happens if I cut off your arm?"
I freeze. Okay… she might actually be crazy.
"Are you less of yourself without that arm? What if I cut off more? At what point do you stop being you?" She tosses one half into the current. It drifts away, unraveling into sparks.
"You're not your body," Uriel continues. "You're not your memories. You're not your actions. At the core, you are your soul. And when the body and mind die, the soul returns here."
I stare, throat dry. Were those fruits…?
Her words settle like stones — heavy, logical. But I can't stop the questions tearing at me. I look at the remaining half of the fruit. "Why am I not like the other souls here?"
Uriel's face darkens. "That, I don't know — but I'm not sure it matters. You'll eventually reincarnate, like every soul does." She throws the other half into the river, watching it vanish in a ripple of light. "Though your case is… a little different."
Different? My stomach twists. "Different how?"
She looks back at me, and her smile this time is sharp. "For starters, you shouldn't be conscious right now. You shouldn't even be able to talk to me. In all the time I've spent here reading stories, you're the first soul I've actually met."
"I guess that makes two of us then," I say.
Uriel chuckles. "How silly of me. You're pretty much a guest here and I haven't even offered you anything. Forgive my manners."
With a wave of her hand, the starlight begins to shift, coalescing into shape — a table, food, drinks I recognize.
"How did you just do that?"
Uriel chuckles and smiles. "You can't be surprised by something so simple. Not if you hope to survive what's to come."