There was a flash of red lights.
Then metal screaming, glass shattering, and silence.
Theodore remembered the moment of his death not as an image, but as an absence — like the world had taken one long breath and forgotten to exhale.
When he finally opened his eyes again, he was home.
His small apartment looked exactly as he left it: the worn-out couch, the half-finished mug of coffee, the faint hum of the refrigerator. The air even carried that faint scent of rain and dust that always lingered after midnight.
But when he turned to the window —
the world outside had changed.
The sky no longer looked like the sky of Earth. It folded upon itself like sheets of burning paper. Mountains floated in the horizon, their peaks piercing layers of golden fog. And above all that — higher than clouds, higher than comprehension — hung a radiant circle of light suspended in the air.
He didn't need to be told what it was.
Something in him already knew: Heaven.
Theodore stood still, his breath shallow.
Every part of him screamed that this wasn't real. His hands, his body, his pulse — everything was real. Yet the logic behind it all was broken.
"How... is this possible?" he whispered.
A voice answered — not from the world, but from the quiet.
"You're asking the right question," said an elderly man standing by the doorway.
Theodore spun around. The man wasn't there a second ago. He simply was, as if reality had forgotten to render him before. His hair was white as frost, his robe plain but perfectly clean, frayed only by time. His eyes were calm — calm in the way oceans are calm before a storm.
"My name is Cicerone," he said, his tone soft but deliberate. "Or Usherette, if that sounds less strange to you. I am here to show you the path."
"The path?" Theodore repeated. "To where?"
Cicerone turned toward the window. As he raised his hand, a thin line of light appeared in the air, stretching outward toward a massive hill in the distance — a mountain shaped like a staircase reaching the heavens.
"To Heyday," said Cicerone. "And beyond it, the gate to Heaven."
Theodore blinked, his mouth dry. "So I'm dead?"
"In a sense, yes," the old man replied. "But not gone. You are in Morale World — a plane between Heaven and Gehenna. Between peace and torment. It is where souls prove what they are truly made of."
Theodore shook his head. "I don't understand. Why am I here? Why not... just let me rest? Isn't death supposed to be the end?"
Cicerone's smile was neither cruel nor comforting — it was knowing. "Endings are for those who have finished what they began. You have not. Here, endings are earned. And the only way forward is upward."
He pointed again toward the distant hill, where the golden mist shimmered like glass.
"That is Heyday. The test of your worth. Every soul must climb it. The higher you go, the more pain you'll feel — pain not of the body, but of truth. Along the way, the things you fear most will appear as your examiners. And should you fall—" Cicerone's voice dropped to a grave whisper. "—you will descend into the Undying Gorge. From there, only Gehenna awaits."
Theodore stared at the glowing trail, his pulse pounding in his throat. It all sounded absurd — a nightmare made of theology and hallucination. But the clarity in the old man's eyes left no room for denial. It felt too precise, too intentional, too... structured.
"Can I go back?" he asked, his voice trembling.
"Not as you were," Cicerone replied. "Resurrection is a word for the living. What lies ahead is continuation. You either ascend or dissolve. There is no pause between them."
The room felt heavier now, though nothing had changed. Even the ticking of the clock grew faint, as if time itself hesitated to move.
"What happens up there?" Theodore asked.
"The truth," said Cicerone simply. "And truth, my dear Theodore, does not comfort — it reveals."
Theodore swallowed, his throat dry. "And you? What are you exactly?"
Cicerone smiled again. "I am not of Heaven or Hell. I am the embodiment of Divine Masculine Energy — the positive current that exists in Heyday. I am the guide, not the judge. The road belongs to you."
Theodore glanced at the window again. The reflection of his face stared back, but wrong — slightly offset, like there were two versions of him. He saw faint silhouettes behind his reflection: one to the right, calm and silent; one to the left, restless, whispering.
"What are those?" he murmured.
"They are you," said Cicerone. "The right whispers reason; the left whispers temptation. You will hear both on your way up. Choose carefully whom to believe — for both will sound like truth."
Theodore felt something ache inside him — guilt, perhaps, or fear disguised as logic. He remembered fragments of his old life: mistakes that bled into habits, apologies that came too late. And now all of it had followed him here.
Cicerone's tone grew heavier, as though he were reciting an ancient law.
"Heyday holds five misfortunes. They are not demons in the traditional sense, but living manifestations of humanity's deepest fears: Demise, Bust, Denial, Forfeit, and Recede. You will see them, and they will see you. Defeating them is not the goal — understanding them is."
Theodore's gaze lingered on the distant mountain. "And if I refuse?"
Cicerone looked almost saddened. "Then you remain still, and stillness is the slowest fall of all."
Theodore breathed out, long and shaking. "...Alright. I'll climb."
That made Cicerone smile — not proudly, but as one who'd seen a thousand souls make the same choice and vanish into the mist.
"Good," he said. "Remember — I can show the path, not walk it. The divine waits for no one, but it watches everyone."
Theodore stepped closer to the window, placing his hand on the glass. It wasn't cold — it was warm, pulsing faintly like living skin. Beyond it, the luminous trail glowed brighter, curling toward the great hill.
"How will I know if I'm ready?" he asked.
"You won't," said Cicerone. "Readiness is a story told by fear. Walk anyway."
Outside, wind whispered across the landscape, carrying a strange resonance — like hundreds of lost voices breathing in unison. Theodore turned the handle and opened the door. The air that met him was thin and metallic, tasting faintly of electricity and dust. The sky above was both day and night, stars shimmering even beneath sunlight.
He glanced back one last time.
Cicerone stood at the doorway, framed in gold light.
"If I fall," Theodore said quietly, "will you help me?"
"I cannot," the old man replied. "Even mercy has laws."
Theodore nodded. He stepped outside. The ground beneath him hummed softly as his first foot touched the soil of Morale World. Each step after that felt heavier — as though his memories had weight.
When he reached the edge of the path, he saw something carved into a slab of stone:
> "There Hoary Refulgence — the Light that is Beyond Light."
He didn't know who or what that was, but something ancient stirred behind the words — an intelligence too vast to fit in the idea of God.
Theodore took a breath and looked up toward Heyday. The mountain loomed above him, half-hidden in fog, half-burning with radiance. Something was moving within that mist — shapes shifting, shadows breathing.
He tightened his fists.
Not in defiance, but in quiet acceptance.
"I'm ready," he whispered, not knowing whether it was true.
Then he took his first step toward the hill.
And as he did, the world behind him folded shut — quietly, like the end of a chapter that would never be reread.
Far above, the light flickered once — as though acknowledging him.
Far below, something in the dark began to move.
And in the wind, faint and echoing, came two whispers:
One kind, one cruel.
Both his own.