"Eric. You're up next."
At last, the waiting was over.
How long had it been?
There was no real sense of time in this place.
No clocks.
No ticking hands or digital counters.
No one among the guards or the damned wore a watch, and the white, wide chamber didn't bother to remind you how much had passed.
If I had to guess, maybe a month had gone by since I first opened my eyes in that white dormitory.
But strangely… I never felt tired.
I never felt hunger.
Never once had to use the bathroom.
I hadn't eaten since waking up, but I wasn't starving.
Only occasionally, out of habit—like muscle memory—I'd think about food.
But it was never a real need.
No grumbling stomach. No dizziness. Just… the ghost of a former life.
Time didn't stretch here. It floated.
And maybe that's what death was—
Not an end, but a kind of pause, where nothing rushed and nothing waited.
Back when I was alive, time chased me like a predator.
I hated wasting even a minute.
Ten minutes between trains made me restless.
Three minutes for ramen felt like a joke.
Five minutes in the bathroom felt like theft.
I studied like time owed me something.
Worked like I was being hunted.
Slept three hours a night and cursed the waste of it.
Once, I tried to eliminate sleep altogether—
Stayed up for five days straight.
Eventually, my nose bled.
My memory faltered.
Almost got hit by a car.
That's when I realized the body has its limits, even if the will doesn't.
So why?
Why did I live like that?
Now, I could stand in place for hours—days, maybe—and it didn't bother me.
No anxiety. No ticking urgency. Just silence.
Maybe that's the most terrifying thing about death.
You realize how pointless the race was only after the finish line disappears.
Here, all I could do was wait.
Or talk.
No books. No screens. Just silence and small talk with people who had already crossed over.
At least the guards didn't mind quiet conversation—so long as you kept it soft.
There was a little girl in front of me.
Big eyes. Clear voice. Holding tightly to an old woman's hand.
She kept glancing around, curious.
So I spoke.
"Hey there."
"Hello~"
She bowed slightly, her voice polite, practiced.
Maybe five or six years old.
"Well, aren't you polite. What's your name?"
"I'm Jenny."
"Jenny, huh? That's a cute name. I'm Eric."
"Okay, Mr. Eric."
What kind of world lets a child this small die?
"You came here with your grandma?"
She shook her head.
"When I woke up, my mom and dad weren't there.
I cried for a while, but this grandma held my hand.
So I stopped crying."
The old woman gave a small smile.
"She's not my granddaughter," she said softly, her voice marked with a slow, rural drawl.
"But she reminded me of mine.
So I stayed close.
And she doesn't seem to mind."
"Not at all! I like holding Grandma's hand," Jenny said cheerfully.
I smiled—until I thought of what it meant.
"Do you remember what happened? Before you got here, I mean?"
Jenny nodded.
"I went to the river with Mommy and Daddy. We were playing, but then… I fell in.
And I died."
There it was.
A child, stating her death like it was a bedtime story.
"You… you know you're dead?"
"I do.
I didn't at first, but Grandma explained it to me.
I'm not a baby anymore."
She said it with such certainty, it made something in me ache.
"You're really brave, Jenny. You haven't cried once."
She hesitated.
"I'm not sad. Not really.
As long as I'm with Grandma, it's okay.
But… I miss Piru.
And Mom.
And Dad…"
Her lip trembled.
I didn't know who or what Piru was, but I guessed—
a pet, maybe. A dog. A cat.
And then the tears came.
Soft at first.
Then louder.
"Mommy!! I miss you!! Daddy!! Wahhh—!"
"Ah, Jenny, I'm sorry… I shouldn't have asked that…"
I crouched down, flustered.
I wasn't good with kids.
Should've known better.
"Hey, Grandma! Keep that child quiet!"
One of the black-suited women snapped.
Her voice cut through the stillness like cold steel.
"It's okay, Jenny. Come here, sweetheart. I'll carry you."
The old woman lifted her gently onto her back.
Cradled her as if she were weightless.
Soon, Jenny fell asleep.
Tears still fresh on her cheeks.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
"No need," the woman said.
"Kids cry.
Doesn't mean the world ends."
She chuckled, and for the first time since I arrived, something felt… almost human.
Almost.