The path beneath Monica's feet glowed faintly, like moonlight trapped in glass. Each step she took sent soft ripples of light outward, as if the ground were made of liquid instead of solid ground. The darkness around them felt endless, heavy with unseen distance.
She walked slowly, afraid that if she moved too fast, she might fall straight into the nothing below.
Oliver moved beside her without making a sound.
"What happens if I fall?" she asked, her voice barely louder than a whisper.
"You don't want to find out," he replied.
That answer did nothing to calm her.
The air was cold, but not in a way she could explain. It didn't chill her skin—it seemed to sink deeper, into her chest, into her thoughts. With every step, she felt more tired, like the void itself was quietly asking her to rest.
To stop.
To give in.
She clenched her fists. No. I don't get to stop.
"How long do I have?" she asked.
Oliver's eyes stayed forward. "Time doesn't behave normally here. In your world, minutes might be passing. Or seconds. Or hours. All I know is that your body is still breathing. For now."
"For now," she echoed, her stomach twisting.
They walked in silence for a while. The whispers in the darkness grew louder—not words, not really, more like fragments of thoughts brushing against her mind. Regret. Fear. Exhaustion. Names she almost recognized.
Then the path ahead began to change.
The glow dimmed. The air grew heavier. And something began to take shape in the distance.
It looked like a doorway.
But as they drew closer, Monica realized it wasn't a door at all.
It was an alley.
Her breath caught in her throat.
The brick walls were the same. The flickering light was the same. Even the smell—old trash, damp concrete, rust—hit her with brutal clarity.
"This is where I fell," she whispered.
"Yes," Oliver said. "This is where your spirit started to let go."
The alley stretched ahead of them, frozen in a moment of time. At the far end, she could see herself—running, terrified, hair plastered to her face with sweat and rain.
"I don't want to see this," she said, her voice shaking.
"You need to," Oliver replied gently. "The void feeds on unfinished moments. On fear. On things you never got to face."
The shadows at the mouth of the alley began to move.
Two shapes peeled themselves away from the darkness.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. "No… no, please…"
Her legs felt weak, but she forced herself to keep walking.
The scene began to move.
She watched herself run. Heard her own ragged breathing. Felt the panic rise in her chest like it was happening all over again.
Then—impact.
The memory shattered into fragments of light and shadow.
Monica gasped and staggered, clutching her chest. "I died here."
"You almost did," Oliver corrected. "There's a difference."
The alley began to rot away, the bricks crumbling into ash that drifted upward instead of falling down.
From that ash, something else formed.
A figure stepped forward.
It looked like her.
But wrong.
Its eyes were hollow. Its skin was gray and cracked, like dried stone. And when it spoke, it used Monica's voice.
"You're tired," it said. "You've always been tired."
Monica's breath hitched. "What is that?"
Oliver's jaw tightened. "That's the part of you that wants to stop fighting."
The thing smiled—a broken, hopeless smile.
"You work until you hurt. You smile until it hurts. You pretend you're strong for your son, but you're so, so tired," it said, circling her. "Wouldn't it be easier to rest?"
Monica shook her head, tears spilling over. "I don't get to rest. He needs me."
"He'll be fine," the thing whispered. "People always say that. He'll grow up. He'll forget the sound of your voice. The exact way you look when you're smiling. Kids are good at surviving."
Each word felt like a knife.
"Stop," Monica cried.
The void darkened. The whispers grew louder.
Oliver stepped between them. "You don't speak for her."
The thing laughed softly. "Don't I? I am her."
It turned back to Monica. "Tell me. When was the last time you chose yourself? When was the last time you weren't exhausted?"
Monica opened her mouth—and nothing came out.
Her chest ached. Her knees trembled.
Then she saw him.
Her son.
Not really—more like a memory, standing at the end of the path. Small. Waiting. Holding his backpack with both hands like he always did.
"Mom?" he called.
Her heart broke open.
"I'm here," she sobbed. "I'm trying. I promise I'm trying."
The shadow-version of her recoiled, as if burned.
"You don't win by being strong," Oliver said quietly. "You win by choosing."
Monica wiped her eyes and took a step forward.
Then another.
"I choose him," she said. Her voice was shaking—but it was real. "I choose to be tired. I choose to be scared. I choose to live anyway."
The shadow screamed—not in anger, but in grief—and shattered into drifting ash.
The alley vanished.
The path returned.
Monica collapsed to her knees, breathing hard.
Oliver knelt beside her. "That was your first threshold," he said. "And you passed."
She looked up at him. "How many more are there?"
His expression was unreadable.
"As many as it takes," he said. "Or until your body gives up."
He stood and offered her his hand.
"Come on," he said softly. "Your son is still waiting."