Bitter cold…The only thing I feel.
Nothing around me, just complete darkness. I start to choke, unable to breathe, suffocating without knowing how. I claw at the air, at anything, but can't even see my own hands. I try to speak, but no sound comes out. Not even a whisper.
Then a faint candle flickers in the distance.It's far from me, glowing softly. As I move toward it, another candle lights beside me. Then another. Their glow grows stronger, forming faint shapes in the dark.
A flash of light, and when I open my eyes, I'm sitting before a desk.The cold lingers. The room looks like an empty office, shelves lined with books, papers scattered across the floor. My footsteps echo faintly as I move. A mirror catches my eye. I approach… and see nothing staring back.
The sound of a door creaking open behind me makes me flinch.A man steps in. Black hair, short, dressed in a trench coat and jeans. His eyes have an odd, tinted gleam. He walks around the room, running his hand along the desk as if inspecting it, completely unaware of me. Then, pulling out a chair, he looks straight at me and says,
"That's some dream you've got there… an interrogation room, of all places."
His voice is soft but carries a dark tone.
I try to reply, but no words come. I feel hollow, weightless.He walks closer and snaps his fingers.
Suddenly, I collapse. Air floods my lungs as I gasp and choke, pain tearing through my chest. My head pounds as I clutch at the floor.
"Wh-what did you do to me?"
Tears sting my eyes as I look up at him.
He leans over me and smiles.
"There, there. Take a moment. We have much to discuss."
The pain swells, sharp and relentless. I groan, coughing. He moves back to the desk, sits down, and wipes dust from a thick book. Then he waves his hand toward me, and the pain vanishes instantly.
I touch my chest. Nothing. Not even a bruise.Unsteady, I rise and glance at the mirror again. This time, a reflection stares back.
Hair down to my shoulders, a crown braid pulled into a ponytail. A short shirt exposing my stomach. A battered jacket, ripped jeans, and running shoes. I stare, confused, trying to understand.
"Please," he says, clearing his throat, "take a seat."
I tear my eyes from the mirror and sit across from him.
"What's going on? Where are we?"
He closes the book and looks up.
"Welcome to your final dream, the boundary between life and death."
I blink, confused.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
He begins writing on a loose sheet of paper.
"You have died. My name is Psychopomps. I am the guide to the deceased."
I shake my head, disbelieving.
"Do you really expect me to believe that?"
He laughs quietly.
"You won't understand it yet."
I sigh and sink back into the chair. This guy must be insane.
"Riiight. Sure. Let's go with that."
Psychopomps stands, examining the mirror.
"You seem doubtful," he says. "Tell me, what's your name?"
I roll my eyes.
"Please. Just get to the point."
Silence. Then, confusion creeps in as I stare down at my hands.
"…Hey… what is my name?"
He studies me.
"What were you doing before you came here? Do you remember anything?"
I search my mind, nothing. Just blank darkness.
"I… I can't remember anything."
A nearby candle flickers out. Psychopomps approaches, holding the mirror toward me.
"Tell me. What do you see?"
"Me," I say.
"Look again."
I lower my gaze, and freeze. My reflection twists into a dark, misty shadow. My hands are smoke. Across from me, Psychopomps' form shifts into a monstrous silhouette with a single glowing red eye.
"That," he says in a low, echoing voice, "is you now."
The mirror shatters. The room flashes black, then returns.I'm solid again. Psychopomps sits calmly at the desk, the monster gone.
"Your name is Amicia," he says. "You are on the verge of death, and one of the few given a chance at resurrection."
He places a photograph on the desk. It looks exactly like me.I pick it up.
"What do you mean, one of the few? Are there others?"
"We'll get to that," he says. "But yes. Others walk the boundary too. You all seek rebirth. To earn it, you must prove your worth."
"Why would I even want to be resurrected?"
He taps his finger on the desk, rhythmic.
"That's not for me to answer. You have no memories, no reason yet to live again. But if you do not find one, you'll wander here forever."
He opens the book again.
"Now then, Amicia… let's learn about you."
"So what's next?"
"There are no right or wrong answers, only discovery. Is there anything you wish to know?"
I pause.
"How did I die?"
"Understandable," he says, writing. "The odds of a woman your age dying naturally are slim. It must have been an accident… or murder."
"I think someone murdered me."
He doesn't look up.
"If you knew who it was, what would you do?"
"I'd pray they stop sinning."
He glances up, eyes glowing faint blue.
"Forgiveness… unexpected. You were compassionate. Many must have mourned your death."
He turns another page.
"Next question. Imagine a small animal in front of you. What is it?"
"A dog," I say immediately, a long-haired Dachshund prances in my mind.
"Why is it there?"
"Happy to see me home, I guess."
He smiles faintly.
"A good boy indeed. What would you do?"
"Tummy rubs."
"Ah. You're a dog person."
"Yes."
His eyes flash blue again.
"Emotional. Empathetic. You understand joy and pain both."
He writes one last line, then looks up.
"Final question: how would you like to be remembered?"
I look down at my scraped hands.
"As… an inspiring person."
He closes the book.
"Then your trial begins. You have thirty-one days to complete your task. Fail, and you'll never leave this place."
He retrieves an old scroll and hands it to me. I unwrap it, blank.
"What is this?"
"The Map of the Dead," he says. "It will guide you only when the blood of the deceased touches it."
"You mean I have to kill someone?"
The air grows heavy, still. Candlelight flickers. Psychopomps stands by the window, his faint red eye glowing in the glass. Amicia sits trembling, though she hides it behind a glare.
"I'm not like the others. I didn't ask to come here."
"None of you did," he replies. "Death is rarely polite enough to ask permission."
"Then tell me what you want from me. What's the point of this game?"
"This is no game. It's a measure of worth. Thirty-one days to prove your soul deserves to return."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you'll fade. Forgotten, nameless, drifting until even sorrow forgets you exist. Trapped in the Netherwinter."
She tightens her grip on the chair.
"And you? What do you get from this?"
"I am the bridge between both shores. I do not judge. I only guide. Whether you rise or fall means nothing to me."
"Cold words for someone who claims to guide the dead."
"You misunderstand. I do not decide your fate, Amicia. I reveal it. What you do with it, that is entirely up to you."
He steps closer, his shadow stretching across the floor, humming faintly with power.Silence stretches between them, the pause between heartbeats.
Amicia rises, voice trembling.
"Before I go… I need to understand something."
"Understanding is not required. Only obedience."
She ignores him.
"This trial, what is it really? Do we walk the same path as the living? Are we meant to fight, to suffer… or to remember? And if we fail, do we disappear, or do you make us vanish?"
Psychopomps doesn't move. His hand rests atop the book. His single red eye dims.
"You asked too many questions," he murmurs. "I will answer only one."
He rises slowly. The floor creaks under his step.
"The trial is not about what you do. It's about what remains when everything else is stripped away."
The candles flicker violently.
"What does that mean?"
"It means," he whispers, "if you seek truth, be ready to lose yourself before you find it."
He turns away as the shadows swallow his form.
"Now go, Amicia. The last question was your last mercy."
The room falls cold again. Candlelight fades, leaving only the echo of her breath and the faint scent of ash where he once stood.
The cold creeps back into my skin. The world fades to black. Wind howls around me as I walk toward a faint light.
Snow begins to fall. Ruined buildings rise through the mist. My breath freezes as I step forward.
And faintly, through the wind, a whisper calls.
"Begin…"