There was no pain. Not at first.

  No sound, either. I was in just stillness so deep it wrapped around me like warm cotton. I floated, or maybe I just wasn’t touching anything. It felt like I was suspended inside a breath that hadn’t finished exhaling. Or I was floating in a large tub with the lights out.

  I was in black. Everywhere, but not the terrifying kind, not the endless scream kind. This was softer. Dreamlike. The colour of closing your eyes beneath lavender skies. A space between thoughts, between one heartbeat and the next.

  And I was… Here.

  Wherever here was.

  My body felt like a whisper like I was made of fog and light instead of bones. No edges, no weight. I looked down, or what I thought was down, and saw nothing but the soft shimmer of faint gridlines. Pale violet geometry stretching out into the forever distance. It reminded me of an old character creation screen from a game I used to watch over my ex-boyfriend’s shoulder before he left. The space before choice. Before you became something. Or someone.

  The horizon pulsed faintly like it was breathing with me.

  A part of me wondered if this was death. Not heaven, not hell. Just this… Threshold. Like a waiting room built by stars and silence. Then came the flicker. Like a light trying to wake up. A pale thread curling in the distance, warm and golden, as if some unseen hand had tugged on it by mistake. My skin, or the memory of my skin, buzzed gently, like a page-turning just behind my ear.

  “Hello?”

  The word didn’t echo. It just existed, falling into the void like a drop of water into still air. There was no answer. Just the quiet. I remembered the road. The horn. The pain that never arrived. The scream that never made it out of my mouth. The way the world had bent sideways.

  And now this.

  Floating in nothing. Alone. But not afraid. It should’ve scared me, how detached I felt from everything, how I couldn’t feel my fingers or my toes, but there was an odd comfort to it too. Like being between songs. Between selves.

  I let myself drift.

  Memories came and went, like birds crossing an open sky: the click of lockers, the cruel echo of laughter, the flick of Kiley’s hair, my notebook ripped in two. A flash of my mom’s text. A bowl of soup I never opened. The hollow ache of being seen only when someone needed something to kick. Tears slid down my cheek but I didn’t know if they were real or remembered.

  I was five years old, again. My long blonde hair was in two pigtails.

  The asphalt of the school parking lot shimmered like a black river under the weak spring sun, and the air hummed with the sound of dismissal bells and the joyful shrieks of kids finally free. But all I heard was the quick thud of my worn sneakers hitting the cracked squares of the sidewalk as I pumped my legs, my bright blue backpack, too big for my small frame, bouncing a rhythm against my shoulder blades.

  Finally. The word was a silent song in my head, a burst of pure, unadulterated five-year-old joy. He was here. Daddy was here.

  He never picked me up. Never. It was always Mommy, her sensible car, the familiar click of her seatbelt. But today was different. Today, standing beside his truck; that big, rumbling, rust-coloured beast that smelled like old tools and something sharp, was Daddy. His arms were crossed tight over his chest, making his big shoulders look even bigger. His eyes, usually crinkly at the corners when he smiled, were hidden behind those scratched-up sunglasses he wore. The ones that made him look like a different person. I didn't see the tight line of his mouth; the way his jaw was set hard.

  I just saw him.

  Maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something new. My steps quickened, a hopeful flutter in my stomach. Ice cream? The park? A whispered secret just between us? Today felt full of possibility.

  Getting into the truck felt strange and exciting. The seat was rough vinyl, hot against the backs of my legs even through my tights. The air inside smelled like the outside of the truck, only stronger, a mix of old coffee and that sharp, metallic tang. The ride wasn't loud like it was with Mommy and her radio stories. It was quiet. The only sound was the growl of the engine and the occasional tick-tick-tick of a loose screw somewhere in the dashboard.

  I kept trying to catch Daddy's eye, to offer him a toothy grin, but he just stared straight ahead, his hands glued to the steering wheel. His knuckles were white, pulled so tight they looked like little stones. My hopeful flutter started to shrink, replaced by a tiny, cold pebble of worry. Were he and Mommy fighting again? The air at home had been thick and loud with it that morning, words like thrown stones. Well, every morning and night, if I was being honest.

  The truck didn’t turn the way it usually did for home. Instead, we kept going, past the familiar houses and the big oak tree with the swing, towards the edge of town. Towards the shop. His shop. It wasn’t a pretty place, just a squat building made of grey bricks that always looked a little dirty. It had a big, clanky metal door and that same strong smell, gasoline thick and heavy, with something else underneath, something burnt and acrid that made my nose wrinkle.

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  The second the metal door shuddered shut behind us, plunging the inside into a sudden, dim quiet, the quiet in the truck exploded.

  He didn't just talk; he roared. His voice was big and rough, like the truck engine, but full of sharp edges. At first, the words were too fast, too jumbled, big adult words that swirled around my head without sticking. Then, some pushed through the noise, words I understood, words that landed like punches.

  "Ruined my life!" he screamed, the sound bouncing off the concrete floor and the oil-stained walls. "Burned it all to the ground!"

  I flinched, pressing myself back against the cracked plastic of a dusty old chair tucked in the corner. It smelled like dust and something stale. My backpack felt heavy, a shield I wished was bigger.

  His eyes weren't hidden anymore. They were wide and wild, darting around the messy garage, landing on tools, on puddles of oil, on me. He grabbed something from the workbench, a long, silver tube with a red handle. My breath hitched. Then, with hands that trembled so hard the metal rattled, he lit it. A sudden, fierce blue flame leaped from the end, hissing like an angry cat.

  "I'm gonna burn you too!" he shouted, his voice a raw, ragged tear, waving the bright, dangerous fire through the air like a sword made of heat and light. Later, I would come to understand it as a propane torch.

  I don’t remember making a sound. My throat felt tight and small. I just remember the way the blue part of the flame looked, so bright it hurt my eyes, and the way it hissed, a hungry sound, as he swung it closer, closer to my face. I could feel the heat on my cheeks, on the fine hairs of my arms. It danced and swayed, a terrifying, beautiful monster.

  “Going to burn you, like I should have done to your mother,” he spat.

  Then, a new sound. A huge, splintering crash made the little windows rattle in their frames. The metal door burst inward, banging against the wall with a sound like thunder.

  Men poured in, fast and loud, dressed all in black, like the shadows under my bed. They wore big, hard helmets and vests, and they were shouting things I couldn’t understand, their voices sharp and urgent. They had black, shiny things in their hands, pointing them everywhere. Then I saw the word: Police. I remember them from school. Mrs Grace did a lesson in class just last week about them.

  Daddy froze. His wild eyes fixed on the men, and the hand holding the torch went slack. The fiery blue monster tumbled from his grasp, hitting the concrete floor with a hollow, lonely clang. It rolled a little, the flame still spitting and hissing before it winked out.

  Later, much later, the sharp smells of the garage were replaced by the stale, clean smell of the police station, I sat in a chair that was much too big for me, my legs dangling, swinging back and forth, back and forth. Voices, calm and low now, murmured around me. I heard someone say they hadn’t come for me at all. They hadn’t known I was there. They had come for Daddy. Something about selling drugs.

  I kept swinging my legs, the worn soles of my sneakers barely brushing the floor. I looked down at my dress, the pretty one with the little flowers. On the hem, near my knee, was a small, dark mark. A burn mark. The blue fire had touched me after all. And I sat there, a small, quiet island in a sea of grown-up voices and long legs, wondering why, when the scary men came and the fire went out and Daddy was taken away, no one had noticed the little girl in the too-big chair, the one with the burned dress.

  Tears came down my face. I had pushed that memory down so deep. Maybe this was the end. Or the beginning. Or both. Then I heard it. Not a voice exactly, but a feeling shaped like one. A presence, just out of sight, humming with quiet power. Like the universe had turned its head toward me and was waiting to see what I’d do next.

  My breath caught. And in that hush, something unfurled across with teal lines in the blackness. Words, soft and glowing, written in the air itself:

  System Notification: [Welcome, Chloe. You’ve entered the Threshold.]

  A flicker of awe stirred beneath the grief. Whatever this was… it wasn’t over. Not yet. Clearing the tears and the memory away, I opened my eyes slowly.

  At first, there was nothing; just the weightless hush of before. Then, like watercolour drying in reverse, the edges of a place began to shape themselves. Soft teal lines curled into geometry, not quite walls, not quite sky. Everything shimmered faintly like reality was still buffering.

  I sat up. My body obeyed, even though it didn’t feel like mine. I was still wearing my school clothes. Plaid skirt with spider-webbed leggings, my punk-rock teddy bear tank top, hoodie zipped halfway, laces still untied. But they were clean now; untouched like none of it had ever happened. Not the fall, not the pavement, not the laughter that had burned like acid behind my eyes. No blood from the bus’s tires, that is a win.

  A faint shimmer followed when I moved. I raised my hand and it lagged a half-second, as if the world hadn’t decided I was real yet. My thoughts stumbled over each other.

  Where am I?

  Is this a dream?

  Am I… dead?

  The word landed heavily in my chest. Then, the feelings hit, reliving the last minutes of my life. The street. The headlights. The sound of tires skidding on wet pavement. Kiley laughed at me. How everything went so silent after.

  I doubled over like my ribs couldn’t hold the weight of it. My fingers gripped the smooth floor as if it was a floor and my breath came out in broken bursts. The grief rushed back first: thick and choking and endless. Then the rage followed, fast and sharp.

  Rage at the girls who laughed. At the teachers who looked away. At my mom and her fucking soup can. At the world that kept turning even when I couldn't.

  “I didn’t want to die,” I whispered. “I was a month away from freedom.” My voice echoed, too loud in the nothing. “I didn’t want to—” It cracked. Broke open. I screamed.

  Kicked at the smooth teal-tinted grid, fists curling, striking the not-air around me. I screamed again, louder this time, rawer, like maybe if I just yelled hard enough, someone would finally hear me.

  The void didn’t answer. Not right away. But then… The grid shimmered under my feet. A ripple passed outward as if my anger had touched something deeper. The echo of my scream folded in on itself. Then came back, not as sound but as a movement. Lines appeared in the sky. Symbols. A strange pulse beneath my skin.

  A soft voice, or a thought shaped like one, threaded through the air: System Notification:

  [Emotion registered: Will to Live.][New Path initializing…]

  And just like that, the nothing wasn’t so empty anymore.

  System Notification: [Goddess Detected: Dormant Soul Located] [Initiating Soulbound Interview Sequence…]