— The String Between Worlds
The room was still.
The rain had stopped.
Only the faint hum of the machines remained, filling the emptiness Naoki left behind after pulling the plug.
He stood there, motionless — eyes empty, shoulders trembling as if caught between one reality and another. His breath came out ragged, uneven. His body began to move again — not from will, but from something else.
His thoughts screamed no.
But his body did not listen.
His fingers twitched. His feet dragged across the tiled floor, slow and mechanical. He didn't understand. He didn't want to understand.
"Why… why the hell am I moving?"
The words echoed only in his mind. His lips didn't part. His voice didn't exist anymore — just thoughts banging against the inside of his skull.
He staggered toward the supply cabinet, his steps uneven, his eyes still blank.
"Stop. Stop. I can't… I can't leave her like this. I can't."
"Please… someone… help me—"
But there was no one there.
Just the still body of his mother, pale against the sheets.
His hand reached the cabinet handle.
It pulled open with a soft creak.
Inside: medical ropes, cloths, tubing — all the things hospitals use to keep patients safe, to keep life contained.
But his fingers reached for the wrong thing.
A coiled cord — thick, sterile white. He wrapped it around his hand, pulling it free like it was calling him.
"No—no, stop! What are you doing!?"
"I don't… want this—please, I don't want this!"
But his hands didn't obey.
His body moved with slow, dreadful certainty.
He dragged the chair across the floor — the sound of its legs scraping echoed through the room, loud, cruel, final.
He looped the rope around the metal beam above the window, every motion precise, methodical, like a puppet repeating someone else's command.
"No. Please. I need to see her again."
"I killed her… I killed her. Isn't that enough?"
His knees gave way for a moment — then stiffened. His hands lifted the rope to his neck. The fibers brushed his skin, cold, alien, unfeeling.
"No, no, stop—please, not this, please—"
The rope tightened.
He kicked the chair.
The thud echoed through the room — a single, sharp sound swallowed by silence.
The rope strained, creaked.
His body jerked violently, struggling against gravity's cruel law.
His lungs screamed for air. His vision pulsed with bursts of white and red. His mind blurred between panic and surrender.
"I can't breathe—!"
"Please, God, stop—stop—"
He gasped, body convulsing. His eyes rolled upward as black spots filled his sight. The rope bit deeper into his skin. His hands tried to claw at it, but his arms wouldn't move. They hung limp, unresponsive.
"Please… God…" he choked inwardly, tears rolling down his cheeks.
"Let me rest… haven't you had enough of me?"
His vision flickered — flashes of his mother, smiling faintly in a memory that wasn't real anymore.
The rain started again.
And then — darkness.
The sound of thunder in the distance.
His heartbeat slowed.
Everything fell silent.
Just before the world faded completely, he heard it — a voice.
A girl's voice. Soft. Familiar, yet impossible.
"Nooooo! Why… I thought you…"
And then nothing.
No air.
No body.
No sound.
Only blackness.
---
The scene shifted.
Bright white lights.
Echoes of clicking keyboards.
A room filled with people in lab coats and suits, standing before a wide holographic display.
A banner overhead read:
"ASTRAL-DIMENSIONAL TRANSCENSION: Breaking the Boundary Between Realities."
Dozens of scientists, journalists, and military officials filled the hall, the air buzzing with tension and curiosity.
At the podium stood a tall man with grey hair and circular glasses — Dr. Arai Kenshou, theoretical physicist and lead researcher of Project ECHO.
He adjusted his microphone, his voice calm but sharp, every syllable carrying the weight of discovery.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "for decades we've asked the same question: What happens when the human body dies?"
A low murmur rippled across the hall.
"Some believe in heaven. Others, in reincarnation. But what if I told you—" he paused, looking around, "—that both might be true, not spiritually, but scientifically."
He tapped a holographic screen beside him. The air shimmered, and an image appeared: a web of glowing lines — infinite threads interwoven like veins of light.
"We call this the String Web Theory. Every thread you see represents a dimension — a complete reality existing parallel to ours. Some threads are nearly identical, others vastly different. And between these threads—" he raised his finger "—is what we call the Firewall. A barrier made of pure cosmic frequency, preventing physical matter from passing through."
The crowd leaned forward, captivated.
"However," he continued, "our experiments with near-death subjects have revealed something extraordinary. When a human being approaches the brink of death, their astral frequency—that is, the energy of their consciousness—separates from the physical body. In this state, the soul becomes neither matter nor energy as we know it. It becomes fluid data."
A woman in the audience raised her hand.
"Dr. Arai, are you suggesting consciousness can traverse the Firewall?"
He smiled faintly.
"Not the body, but the essence."
The hologram shifted — showing a glowing human silhouette splitting from its own body, crossing into another web of light.
"Our simulations indicate that during moments of clinical death — specifically between six to fifteen seconds before brain activity ceases — the consciousness can bypass the Firewall entirely. Why? Because it no longer abides by the rules of physics. It's unbound. Neither alive nor dead."
Another scientist interjected, his tone skeptical.
"But surely that's only theoretical. There's no proof a person can stay in another dimension. The consciousness would collapse without a physical anchor."
Dr. Arai nodded, eyes glinting.
"That's where it becomes fascinating. We've recorded residual wave data from a patient who clinically died for thirteen seconds. The readings showed consistent neural patterns — almost as if his consciousness was still active outside his body. When revived, he reported seeing 'another version' of his life."
The audience erupted in murmurs again — disbelief, fascination, fear.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Dr. Arai said, voice steady, "our reality is not a line. It's a loop. And the moment a consciousness detaches from its physical form, it is no longer bound by the timeline it came from. It can, theoretically, anchor itself in any dimension where its frequency resonates."
He turned off the hologram. The room dimmed slightly, his silhouette framed by the pale blue lights behind him.
"To put it simply…" he said quietly, "when a soul is forced to the edge — by trauma, by pain, by death — it may slip through the Firewall… and awaken somewhere else."
The silence that followed was electric.
Someone in the crowd whispered,
"So… it's possible to travel to another dimension by dying?"
Dr. Arai's eyes flicked toward the voice.
"Not dying. Almost dying."
He raised a small device — a crystalline fragment pulsing with faint light.
"This," he said, "is a captured frequency. The resonance of a consciousness moments before total decay. Its waveform is… unique. It contains emotional charge — guilt, grief, regret. These emotions seem to amplify the soul's frequency, allowing it to pass the Firewall."
He paused, scanning the crowd.
"In other words, it's not science alone that opens the path between worlds. It's suffering. The intensity of one's emotional collapse — that's the bridge."
A young researcher leaned forward.
"You mean… someone who's experienced extreme despair could—"
"—could unconsciously cross over," Arai finished, his tone somber. "Yes."
A ripple of fear spread through the audience.
One of the military officials raised his hand.
"Dr. Arai, if this is true, it means that human emotion — pain, regret — can act as a form of energy capable of transcending universes. That's…"
He hesitated, searching for the word.
"…terrifying."
Dr. Arai nodded slowly.
"And beautiful."
He turned back to the holographic web, tracing one glowing strand with his finger.
"Imagine, for a moment, a boy standing at the edge of life. He blames himself for everything he's lost. His sorrow becomes unbearable — his heart stops. At that exact moment, his consciousness detaches, crossing the Firewall to another version of reality — one where his fate might differ. To us, it's death. To him, it's continuation."
The screen flickered — the image of the glowing soul fading into light.
"Our research calls this phenomenon Dimensional Drift. It is not resurrection, not reincarnation — it is the soul's instinct to find a world where it can exist again."
The audience was silent. Some took notes. Others just stared, haunted.
Dr. Arai looked down at his notes, then slowly set them aside. His voice softened.
"Perhaps that's what we've mistaken as miracles… or second chances."
He glanced up once more, his eyes distant.
"Perhaps every soul that suffers enough finds its way home — somewhere."
The lights dimmed further.
The conference hall filled with murmurs, questions, disbelief — but the sound faded, blending into static.
Static that turned into rain.
---
The scene shifted again — back to darkness.
A rope swayed gently.
A body hung motionless in the half-light.
But the chest still moved, faintly.
Barely.
A pulse still thudded, weak, almost nonexistent.
And somewhere far, far beyond the limits of that dying heartbeat — something bright tore through the dark.
Like a thread of light crossing between worlds.
---
To be continued...