Mae inhaled—slow and full after a long time.
It was the first breath in a long time that didn't taste like rain or mold. This one was different. Cool, fragrant, laced with something floral and green. The kind of air that made the lungs feel new. She let it fill her to the brim.
Spring?
Had it finally come?
She didn't open her eyes. Not yet. Her body felt like it was lying against something soft—something yielding and warm, like the cushiony grass from her childhood road trips. She could almost smell it too—the earthy, slightly sweet scent of sun-warmed fields. Somewhere nearby, soft music hummed, no real tune, just a rhythm like the lullaby of wind.
Her chest felt light.
Not tight. Not bruised. Just… free.
Is this the afterlife?
Her lips parted slightly, her breath drifting out as gently as it came in. There was no pain. No noise. No hatred. No voice barking her worthlessness. Just quiet.
If this is the afterlife, she wondered, will I get to see Mom again? Dada?
The thought pushed at her like a nudge, warm and aching.
She wanted to look. To know.
So she opened her eyes.
Or tried to.
It was like tearing fabric stitched too tight. They felt glued shut, crusted from salt and sleep and god-knows-what else. The light behind her lids pierced like needles.
"Agh! What the hell—?!" she hissed, instinctively slapping her palms over her eyes.
A stinging burn flared through her sockets.
"God! This is killing me!" she gritted, rubbing her eyes the way children do after a hard, snotty cry—awkward and desperate. Her fingers were shaking.
Eventually, the pain dulled, and slowly, hesitantly—she blinked her eyes open.
And froze.
Above her…
A sky unlike any she had ever seen.
No clouds. No pollution. Just velvet black, endless and clean. And stars—millions of them. Glowing like lanterns, like tiny bonfires stitched across the heavens. Galaxies spun in spirals of color, faint trails of pinks and violets webbed across the night like oil in water.
Her eyes widened, awe clutching her chest.
"I can see… all the galaxies," she whispered.
Her heart began to thrum, not in fear, but in reverence. A shooting star slipped across the horizon. Then another. And another.
It was breathtaking. Impossible.
"Haah…" Her lips parted, smiling as tears pricked her lashes. "This is so beautiful."
She watched, completely still, letting the stars dance for her.
"If I'd known dying was this peaceful… this beautiful," she whispered, voice trembling with something between a laugh and a sob, "I would've died years ago."
She slowly pushed herself up, the scent of green clinging to her skin as her fingers sank into the grass. It felt real. Almost too real. Cool against her palms, dewy with something sweet, fragrant—like crushed petals and freshly cut stems.
And when she looked around, her breath caught in her throat.
She wasn't in a field.
This was no wild patch of earth.
It was… someone's garden.
Sprawling, intricate, far too well-tended to be anything less than intentional. Roses bloomed in impossible colors, climbing trellises that seemed carved from ivory. Lilies unfurled like parchment scrolls, and soft lights floated among the trees as if the stars themselves had fallen into the hedges to rest.
And behind her—looming like a myth, too large to comprehend all at once—was a palace. Not cold marble or sterile white. No, it shimmered with color—golden hues melting into pale pinks, blues shifting with the sky's mood. Its arches curled like the spine of a dream, domes layered with mosaics that caught starlight like a thousand little suns.
She stared at it, frowning.
"Is that… heaven?" she whispered to herself, the words almost silly in her mouth. "Isn't this… a bit much?"
She shook her head lightly, brushing her hands over her dress to ground herself—
And froze.
The fabric wasn't hers.
It shouldn't have been hers.
Her breath faltered as she looked down. She was dressed in something utterly foreign—alien and decadent. A dress of pale pink tulle spilled over her body like smoke. Gold embroidery laced every inch of it, curling in delicate patterns that caught the starlight in glittering fire. Drapes hung from her shoulders like whispering veils, flowing behind her as if moved by a wind she couldn't feel. A heavy chain of gems rested across her collarbone, clasped at the center by a brooch too old, too exquisite, too royal.
She lifted her arms, letting the long, sheer fabric slide down like water.
The sleeves brushed her fingertips. She turned her palms slowly, the fabric floating like wings.
"What the hell is this…" she muttered, more breath than voice, as her fingers curled into the excess cloth. "This isn't how heaven looks. Not the way they said it would…"
The unease started to crawl in.
But it wasn't the place that brought it.
It was the voice.
"I thought you said you weren't coming."
It struck her like a whisper turned to thunder.
She froze.
The voice was smooth—sharpened by memory and layered with something venomous beneath its calm.
"Guess you couldn't keep your word… even now."
Her chest locked up.
The garden. The dress. The stars.
They all blurred into static behind that voice.
Her breath grew shallow, her mind slamming against the sound like a bird hitting glass.
No. No. No. No.
This is not possible.
She didn't turn. Couldn't turn.
There's no way. Not him. Not here. Not in a place like this. God wouldn't—couldn't—let him in.
Her pulse pounded like a warning drum in her ears.
Her body finally obeyed.
She turned—slowly, as if each degree of movement carved pain into her bones.
And the moment she saw him, her knees buckled.
She fell.
Hard.
Back onto the same patch of grass she had just risen from. Her hands trembled as they gripped at the ground.
Black hair.
Eyes like ink, hooded and dark, as if they'd forgotten light.
Brows pulled together in that way she had learned to fear.
That face. That goddamn face.
Her stomach flipped—hard. A hot, acidic wave rose up and lodged itself somewhere in her throat. She almost choked on it. Her legs stiffened, her hands dug into the grass beneath her, nails clawing at the soft earth as if she could hold on long enough to erase what she was seeing.
Her voice barely came out, torn and breathless.
"…What are you doing here?" she whispered, like the words were made of shards.
Then her head shook violently. "No. No—I don't want to hear it!"
Her voice cracked, louder now, something between a scream and a sob she couldn't release.
"I can't! I can't!Go away!!"
She scrambled. Her limbs weren't listening. The dress—heavy, stupid, clinging to her legs—kept wrapping around her ankles as she tried to get up. The embroidery caught on the grass, yanked at her arms, the long sleeves sticking to her skin like wet paper. Everything felt like it was grabbing at her, holding her down, choking her.
He didn't move. Just stood there. Watching.
Like he always did. With that blank, passive, cutting face. Like he hadn't ruined her. Like she hadn't shattered already.
She pushed off the ground again, knees sinking back into the dirt as the stupid dress tangled around her thighs. The heel pushing into the soil. She fought it, Taking the heels off throwing them angrily then fisting the fabric, dragging it up in handfuls until her knees were bare and scratched and she finally—finally—got on her feet.
"What are you doing?" he said, flat, uninterested.
She didn't even look at him.
"Getting as far away from you as I fucking can!" she shouted, voice trembling, breath stuttering out of her mouth as she turned and ran.
She didn't care how she looked. She didn't care that her legs were exposed or that she was barefoot or that her chest was heaving like it would rip open. She held the dress up, crushed it in her hands like it was the only thing she could control, and ran—ran like hell was behind her.
"That fucking bastard," Mae spat, storming through the strange patch of thorns and gravel that felt less like heaven and more like a joke she wasn't laughing at. Her voice cracked with heat, her breath uneven. "Why the hell is he still here? I cursed him. I cursed him to live and suffer—and now he's dead with me? Here? What kind of messed-up afterlife lets him in?"
She hissed under her breath, shoving aside a branch that had the audacity to tug at her dress. Her bare feet slapped against the earth, and only now did she start feeling the sharp stings digging into her soles—stones, thorns, roots, whatever the hell this fake paradise was made of. It hurt. Of course it hurt. Because nothing was allowed to feel right.
She stopped walking. The pain finally pulled her back into her body.
Her chest rose and fell, hard, like she was breathing underwater. She turned slowly, half-expecting everything to melt away behind her like some sick illusion. But it didn't. The palace still stood. Giant, strange, too ornate to make any real sense. And around her now—she hadn't even noticed before—were carriages. Dozens of them, arriving one after another, lined in front of the palace gates like they'd come straight out of some fairytale she'd never liked. Silks flapped in the air, horses snorted clouds into the sky, and everything reeked of wealth.
"This is not heaven," she muttered, scoffing under her breath. "This is some bullshit fever dream. What the hell is all this?"
She didn't get a moment more to think.