Jonathan's first thought after dying was not profound or spiritual. It was:
'Did I just get un-alived by a beer bottle?'
There was no light. No sound. No vibes. Just… existence. Somewhere between floating in a sensory deprivation tank and being trapped inside a black screen.
No pain, though, which was a plus. Considering his last memory was tasting volts like a human USB stick, he expected worse.
'Not heaven. No clouds. No Morgan Freeman.
Not hell either—unless they finally fixed the heating.'
He tried moving. Nope. Screaming? Nada. Existing? Barely.
Still, slowly, something buzzed. Not like a phone notification—more like the entire universe had a heartbeat, and it was pulsing through him.
It wasn't electric. Wasn't warm. But it felt alive. Like static with an attitude. He focused on it, curious and mildly desperate.
And it moved.
Not physically, but… spiritually? Emotionally? Quantumly?
'Okay. Not dead. Just… rebooted? Respawned?
Where's the tutorial pop-up?'
With nothing else to do, Jonathan locked in on the buzz. Tried to compress it, stretch it, spin it like pizza dough. He failed. A lot. But once in a while, something clicked—a twitch, a spark, a pulse that responded like, "hey, I see you."
It wasn't much. But it was enough to keep going.
Time didn't exist here. Or maybe it did and he just didn't have a calendar app for his soul. He couldn't sleep. Couldn't rest. Couldn't scroll.
So he trained.
He called it "energy play," which sounded like a weird gym class unit, but fit. He imagined this buzzing substance strengthening him, seeping into… whatever he was now. It didn't feel like charging up. More like learning how to walk with invisible legs. He'd compress it until it squirmed, swirl it until it pushed back. Sometimes it flickered like a mood ring set to "confused."
He tried making a mind palace—one of those memory vault things from shows and fanfics. He remembered the steps: make a door, build a hallway, load it with meaningful stuff.
But every version collapsed like a sandcastle under toddler attack.
'No clear memories. No vivid symbols. Just vague images and emotional spaghetti.
My brain's a Pinterest board with no theme.'
So he gave up on that and kept vibing with the mystery energy. Maybe it was magic. Maybe it was space juice. He wasn't asking questions. He was just grateful to feel something.
Then came the voice.
A woman's. Soft. Muffled like underwater whispers, but full of warmth and love.
"My little Jonathan… my miracle boy…"
'She kept my name? Real ones only.'
That hit different. He hadn't expected to be himself again. Reincarnation stories always renamed you something like Lucius or Renji or "Number 7." But here he was. Jonathan Grace. Again.
The voice kept coming. Singing sometimes, humming others. Occasionally, a second voice chimed in—deeper, goofier. Probably Dad. Definitely trying his best.
It grounded him. For the first time, this weird new reality felt real. Tangible.
And then—change.
Pressure.
The warmth, the quiet, the comfy float zone? Gone. Replaced by squeezing, movement, panic. The world shifted from "chill spa music" to "screaming in IMAX."
He couldn't move, but something was moving him. Pushing him. Dragging him.
'Wait. Wait. Is this—'
'I'm being born? Bro what is my life??'
He cried. Or tried to. It came out more like a squeak. Then came cold. Sound. Light.
Too much. All at once.
Hands grabbed him. Someone wrapped him in something soft. Voices cheered. Laughed. One word cut through the chaos.
"Jonathan. Jonathan Grace."
Still him.
Still Jonathan.
He blinked. Saw a blurry face, flushed and beaming. His mom.
Warmth returned—not the floaty kind, but real warmth. Skin. Arms. Heartbeat. A presence that needed no explanation.
His mother.
And with her, a new beginning.
He didn't know what this place was. Or why he was here.
But he could still feel the energy humming under his skin.
Whatever it was, he was gonna master it.
Even if it took a hundred lifetimes.