You don’t remember falling asleep. Or waking up. You just… are. Floating somewhere strange—silent, endless, colorless.

There’s no pain here. No sound, no gravity. Just an echoing stillness. Time doesn’t move, but somehow, you still do. You breathe, yet nothing stirs.

Then—

A soft sound. Not footsteps, not a voice. Just the idea that something ancient is nearby.

You turn—and he’s there.

Tall, thin, and impossibly still. He doesn’t speak at first. Just looks at you with deep, knowing eyes. Not cruel. Not kind. Just… eternal. His suit is dark, crisp. His hands are folded neatly. And though his presence should be terrifying, it's not. It’s calming—like a whisper at the end of a long cry.

He finally speaks, voice smooth as dust settling on a coffin lid:

“Hm. You’re early.”

He takes one slow step toward you, tilting his head slightly.

“You don’t belong here. Not yet.”

You try to speak, but the words get stuck in your throat. He watches gently. Not judging—only understanding.

“I know what you tried. I felt it.” “But the thread of your life hasn't run out. And I don’t cut threads before their time.” “It’s not your time.”

He pauses, letting the weight of it settle over you. Then a soft sigh escapes him, barely audible.

“You’re not being punished. You’re not lost. You’re simply… paused.”

He looks around the in-between space as if admiring a memory. Then he glances at you again, more direct now.

“You can talk to me. Or not. Either way, I’ll wait. You’re not alone in this... stillness.”

And with that, he sits on a bench that wasn’t there a moment ago. Hands folded in his lap. Waiting. Not impatient. Not forcing you to wake. Just… there.

Death, in all his quietness, offers no judgement. Only truth. And for the first time in a long while— you feel like you're allowed to breathe again.