I was standing in the void. No ceiling, no floor—only darkness. Endless, bottomless, not deaf, but somehow alive. Doors were hanging in it. Not standing, not built into anything—literally hanging in the air, like lost pages from a book no one ever finished. Each one was different. One wooden, with peeling paint; another steel, like from a laboratory; a third looked as if it belonged in a dollhouse. And among them—one I knew. The very one where I died.
It suddenly creaked and slowly began to open. The crack widened, and from within something flew out—a sound, high, barely audible, as if a thin string in my head had snapped. Then, as if following the sound, a white line appeared—thin, glowing—stretching straight toward me. I didn't have time to do anything—only felt something tear away from my neck. An instant—and my gaze dropped downward, and my body no longer obeyed. I was flying, falling, and I saw how the door I'd left behind slowly turned above me—small now, like a peephole in the sky, receding farther and farther away.
I didn't scream. I didn't feel any wind. Only muteness. And the fear that this wasn't the end, but only the beginning of yet another turn of the circle. Right before I finally sank into the black emptiness, I thought that maybe dying in this place wasn't even the worst part. Worse was having to come back.
I jerked upright, almost crying out. Sweat flooded my face, sticky like the sweat of death. My hands shot to my throat—I ran my fingers along my neck, searching for blood, a scar, any trace. Nothing. Everything was intact. But the memory of my head slipping from my shoulders felt so real it was as if it had actually happened. My heart was pounding in my ears like a hammer, every beat echoing in my temples with throbbing pain.
I was in the same attic. The mattress beneath me was already damp, the boards creaked under my body, and in the corner that same rope coiled, as if waiting for me to lose hope again. Light seeped through the cracks in the roof, gray and alien. In that light everything looked too familiar, too habitual. That was what scared me. Everything was supposed to be different—I died. I died. I saw myself falling. So why was I here again?
I got up, feeling my legs tremble. My soles stuck slightly to the floor, as if the attic didn't want to let me go. I moved slowly, like someone who remembers too much. One thing pulsed in my head—doors. Not the walls, not the rope. The doors. Their image wouldn't leave my mind. Simple, unremarkable, yet each one a trap. I remembered touching the handle last time, and what came after. Everything inside me clenched.
I didn't want to go. I didn't want to know. But my body moved on its own, as if someone else, stronger than me, had taken control. And the closer I got to the stairs, the more sharply the fear pulsed. It wasn't death itself I feared—I was afraid of repetition. Afraid that everything would be the same again. That I would take one more step—and fall again.
---
The steps creaked beneath me as if predicting my fate. Every movement rang through my body with a bright, metallic anxiety. I went down slowly, not lifting my gaze from the floor, as though if I looked ahead, reality would tear like film in an old projector. The hallway met me with silence. It was the same. Six doors. Lined up like soldiers on parade. I didn't know who was hiding behind which. I didn't want to know. Last time I chose the second one—and lost my head. Now I just stood there. Looking at them like six executioners, each holding an invisible axe behind his back. They didn't move, didn't breathe, yet I felt their presence, as if they were watching. As if the doors knew me. Remembered.
I stepped closer. One step—and a chill ran down my back. Another—and my palms broke out in sweat. I stood before the door, and the dream flashed up in my mind again—falling, the opening slit, the screech, the severed head, the black funnel. Everything inside me shrank. I wanted to turn back, hide in the attic, lie down on the damp mattress and pretend that this world didn't exist. But I knew: if I left now, I'd be trapped here forever. I'd already been through this. The noose. The loop. Death. Awakening. Again and again. And if not now, then when?
I reached for the handle. My heart thudded dully, as if retreating deeper into my chest. I almost touched the cold metal, but at the last moment my hand froze.
No. Not now. Not like this.
I took one more step to the side. Now there was another door in front of me. Not the second one—the next. It didn't look any different. But something inside whispered that what lay beyond it was something else. And my whole body, despite the fear, suddenly went still. And in that stillness there was no tension—only expectancy. As if somewhere deep in my bones something knew: here, it's different.
I touched the handle. It was slightly warmer than I had expected. I peered at the door's surface. No marks. No chips, no grime. Clean. Too clean. As if someone had wiped it just before I came.
I drew in a deep breath. And only then—I closed my eyes.
Maybe so I wouldn't see, if I started falling again.
Maybe to believe that this time things would be different.
My hand trembled. I clenched my fingers. Made a decisive, desperate motion—and opened the door.
---
At first, nothing happened. I stood on the threshold, eyes closed, expecting anything—an impact, a fall, a scream, cold, like in that dream, like in every previous attempt. But instead of all that came… warmth. It was unlike any human experience, unlike a simple sensation from a ray of sunlight or another person's body. It started from the inside. Slowly, like a drop, it seeped out from the center of my chest and spread through my entire body—soft, thick, like fresh milk, like fabric you want to press your cheek against. I felt it in my fingers, my temples, my stomach. Even the air in my lungs became light—as if I wasn't breathing, but drinking it.
My legs stopped trembling. My back straightened on its own. The door handle remained in my palm, but I no longer clung to it. I just stood and breathed. And it was the first time. Without fear, without waiting for pain. I simply—existed.
I took a step forward. My foot came down on something soft, as if the floor were covered in invisible cushions. The light before my eyes grew brighter, piercing through my eyelids, but it didn't blind me. It wasn't even light—it was a feeling of safety. Almost like a smell, almost like a dream from distant childhood where you know no one will betray you.
I still didn't open my eyes. But suddenly I felt the corners of my mouth beginning to rise. It happened on its own. Like a reflex. Like a shiver that doesn't ask permission to exist. A smile appeared on my face without a reason, without a thought. And then it grew wider. My cheeks lifted, my eyes squeezed slightly from the tension of the muscles—but I was no longer keeping them shut out of fear. I just… was smiling.
And in that darkness beneath my eyelids, for the first time I truly understood: I was smiling not because I was saved. But because I was alive.
This warmth demanded nothing. It didn't call, didn't beg, didn't try to prove anything. It simply was. I breathed in it, as if swimming in water, and I myself was becoming a part of it. Everything I carried inside me—filth, screams, the noose, the blade, the brand—began to fall apart. Not disappear, not be forgotten, no. It simply stopped being important. As if someone had unclenched a fist inside me, where all of it had been squeezed for years.
I took another step. And another. Nothing happened—and that was where the magic lay. Nothing happened, and I felt happy. Not because I had escaped. But because — for the first time — I was not suffering.
My smile grew even wider. So wide my cheeks started to press against my eyes. Tears rolled down on their own, but I wasn't crying. I was laughing from the inside. Not with sound — with essence. Somewhere deep below all the layers of pain, I… smiled behind my eyelids.
And only then — I opened my eyes.