Mystics Returned

Adam floated in the endless expanse of the void. There was no up or down, no sense of direction or space, only an empty, suffocating blackness that stretched on forever. Time had long since lost its meaning. How long had he been here? Days? Years? Perhaps even centuries? The concept of time itself felt pointless in this place. Here, there was nothing—no light, no sound, no sensation of any kind, only the overwhelming nothingness that gnawed at his sanity. And yet, Adam remained conscious, trapped in the void with his thoughts.

Adam floated in the suffocating blackness of the void, endlessly contemplating the event that had led him here—his death. It wasn't heroic. It wasn't like the stories he had spent his life immersed in, those grand tales of sacrifice or valor. There had been no last-minute exchange of lives, where he saved someone dear to him in return for his own. No brave stand against some terrible force. His death wasn't even the kind of mundane, peaceful end that came with reaching the end of a long life, surrounded by loved ones. And it definitely wasn't the fiery, action-packed ending some might envision—taking a bullet to stop a robbery, or pulling someone from a burning building, going out in a final, selfless blaze of glory.

No, his death had been far simpler, much more ordinary. The kind of death that, tragically, happened to far too many people without any notice or fanfare.

It was raining. He remembered that much. A steady downpour that made everything slick—the roads, the sidewalks, his clothes. He had been walking home from work, distracted as usual by some mundane thoughts about bills, weekend plans, and whether he'd finally get around to reading that new book on Norse mythology he'd been meaning to. The night was cold, the wind biting through his jacket as he crossed a dimly lit street. He glanced down at his phone—just for a second—to check a message from a friend. And that was when it happened.

The truck came out of nowhere. A hulking mass of steel, barreling down the street far too fast for the weather conditions. It didn't slow down for the red light. It didn't even swerve. Adam, caught in the middle of the crosswalk, had just enough time to look up and see the blinding flash of headlights, his body frozen with that split-second realization that this was it. The screech of brakes on the slick road was drowned out by the deafening roar of the engine, and then—the impact.

He remembered the dull thud of his body being flung through the air, the way his bones seemed to vibrate with the force of the collision before everything went numb. There was no pain, not really. Just a sudden sense of detachment, as if his body had already stopped belonging to him in that moment. And then there was nothing.

No dramatic goodbyes. No slow fade into unconsciousness. Just the rain, the glare of headlights, and the brute force of a truck that didn't care whether he lived or died. A meaningless, unremarkable death on a wet street. 

That was how it ended.

Adam had always imagined dying would be something more. At the very least, he had hoped for some kind of meaning, some sense that his life had led to this moment in a way that mattered. But it hadn't. He hadn't died saving someone, hadn't gone out in a blaze of glory. He was just another pedestrian who had the bad luck of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. A statistic.

Now, he was here—wherever "here" was—stuck in this void, left to contemplate that meaningless end over and over again. 

The irony wasn't lost on him. He had spent his whole life fascinated by stories of death and the afterlife, imagining the grandeur of what might come after. But here he was, not in some grand afterlife, but in the infinite, suffocating blackness. 

"Death," he mused, "was supposed to be an end. A release, a passage into something else." He had thought, like so many others, that death would offer answers, or at the very least, closure. Instead, it left him with more questions than ever, drifting endlessly in the dark, with no direction, no purpose.

He had always been fascinated by mythology, tales of gods and legends from ancient times. As a child, he had devoured stories of Zeus and Odin, of Vishnu and Anubis. Myths had been his escape, his way of understanding the world and its many mysteries. Now, in the unyielding blackness of the void, that fascination had taken on a new dimension. Where were the gods now? Where was his mythological afterlife? He had always wondered what it would be like to face eternity, but this… this was nothing like the myths. There were no golden fields of Elysium, no fiery pits of Hell, no sacred halls of Valhalla. Just nothing.

Adam sighed, or at least he thought he did. In the void, even basic bodily functions seemed absent, but he imagined the sensation of sighing, a small way to maintain some semblance of normalcy. "The afterlife," he thought bitterly, "everyone has their own idea of what it should be." And here he was, stuck in a place that none of them had ever described.

His mind wandered back to the different ways people had described the afterlife. Religion had always been a source of speculation, offering promises of paradise or warnings of eternal suffering. He couldn't help but mentally list them, contrasting their promises against the bleak nothingness surrounding him.

The Christians, he thought, with their Heaven and Hell. How many times had he heard of the pearly gates, where the righteous would be welcomed into eternal bliss? There would be reunions with loved ones, songs of joy, and endless peace. And for the wicked? Eternal damnation in Hell, a place of fire and brimstone, where suffering never ceased. But here in the void, there was no fiery torment, nor was there any heavenly chorus to greet him. No angels. No devils. Just silence.

Then his mind shifted to another prominent Western faith: Islam. The concept of Jannah, the Islamic paradise, was vivid in his memory. A garden of delights, with rivers of milk and honey, where those who were faithful would live in eternal comfort and joy. And for those who had strayed from the path, Jahannam awaited, a place of scorching flames and punishment for those who defied Allah's commands. But once again, Adam found no verdant gardens, no flowing rivers of milk. No blazing infernos, either. Just this infinite void, where nothing existed except his awareness of how utterly alone he was.

Adam couldn't help but laugh—a hollow, bitter sound that echoed only in his mind. So much for paradise and hellfire. If this void was supposed to be the afterlife, it had none of the fanfare promised by Western religions. But maybe the East had it right?

His thoughts drifted to Hinduism. The concept of reincarnation had always intrigued him—the idea that one's soul would be reborn, life after life, until they achieved moksha, liberation from the cycle of birth and death. In Hindu belief, the soul was eternal, always changing form until it finally returned to the divine. Adam had once hoped that if he ever faced the end, his soul might move on to another life, another chance. But what if this void was part of that process? What if this was the intermediary state, the waiting room before his soul took on a new form? But there was no sign of that happening. He wasn't being reborn, wasn't moving forward. He was stuck, as if the wheel of karma had broken and he was caught in a never-ending limbo.

And then there was Buddhism. The idea of nirvana had always seemed peaceful to him. To be free from the cycle of suffering, to let go of all earthly attachments and desires, and to reach a state of perfect stillness. Perhaps this void was a twisted version of that—complete stillness, complete nothingness. But there was no peace here, no sense of liberation. In fact, Adam felt more trapped than ever, his mind unable to let go, constantly grappling with the overwhelming silence and the sheer weight of existence. If this was nirvana, it was a cruel parody of the peaceful state he had imagined.

Adam clenched his fists, or at least he imagined doing so. His body felt like an afterthought, a memory of a form he once had but no longer possessed. Anger welled up inside him—anger at the futility of it all. "Is this all there is?" he wondered. "Is this the great cosmic joke? You live your life, you hope for something more, and then you end up here—alone, in nothingness, forever?"

The void gave no answer.

He tried to distract himself with more thoughts of mythology. The Greeks had their Elysian Fields for the heroes and the virtuous. The Norse had Valhalla, where warriors would feast and fight until Ragnarok. Even the Egyptians believed in an afterlife, where one's heart was weighed against a feather to determine their fate. But none of these beliefs held up in the face of the void. The legends, the stories, they all seemed so small, so insignificant now. What was the point of it all if this was where you ended up? Floating in a vast, empty abyss, with no sense of purpose or direction.

Time stretched on—or at least it felt like it. Hours or eons passed, and Adam's mind began to fracture. Thoughts looped endlessly, spiraling into themselves. Memories surfaced and faded, disintegrating into the void as quickly as they appeared. He thought of his childhood, his friends, his family—people he would never see again. They were gone, lost to the world of the living, while he remained trapped in this liminal space.

Just when he felt the weight of eternity crushing him, something changed. It was subtle at first, barely perceptible, but Adam felt it—a slight tremor in the void. His heart, or what was left of it, quickened. The void, which had been still for so long, was shifting. He wasn't sure if he was imagining it or if something was finally happening. The tremor grew stronger, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Adam felt a presence.

The void quaked, and then he felt it—something attaching itself to him, a cold, slithering sensation wrapping around his limbs. It wasn't painful, but it was unsettling. He had grown so accustomed to the stillness that the sudden presence of movement and sensation jarred him. Whatever it was, it was pulling him, dragging him deeper into the void, or perhaps out of it—he couldn't tell.

Panic surged through him. Was this it? Was this his end, or was something worse waiting for him beyond the void? He wasn't sure if he wanted to find out. Part of him had grown accustomed to the nothingness, to the bleak comfort of being alone in the dark. But now, something was changing, and Adam wasn't sure if he could handle it.

The sensation grew stronger, more insistent. It pulled at him, tugging at the very fabric of his being. He didn't know what was happening, but a deep, primal fear began to take hold. He had wanted release, had hoped for an end, but now that something was happening, he wasn't sure if he was ready for it.

"Just let it end," he thought. "Let this be over."

But the void was not done with him. The quaking intensified, and whatever had attached itself to him was now fully entwined, pulling him in a direction he couldn't see or understand. His mind screamed for it to stop, for the void to release him, for the end to finally come.

But no end came. The void held him tight, and the presence continued to pull, dragging him further into the unknown.