As if an invisible vortex had pulled him in, everything sank into darkness.
At first, the darkness was cold. Then, little by little, a hazy light emerged within it. When Yogesh became aware of himself again, he was in a strange realm—not heaven, not hell. A long, narrow path stretched ahead, and countless souls were moving forward on numb feet. There was no light in their eyes, only emptiness.
Yogesh shuddered. Strange flowers bloomed on either side—deep violet, blood red, metallic blue. Their petals trembled faintly, releasing a sweet yet peculiar scent. He noticed that the souls who stared at them for too long began walking more slowly. Some stopped to touch them, and their eyes grew even emptier.
Then he saw them—several women, glowing with unnatural beauty.
Then, under the spell of their illusory snare, he began following them. The path veered away from the main route. The scent of the flowers had grown stronger.
A figure rose from the center of a pool—a woman’s shape, but faceless. Where her eyes and lips should have been, there was only smooth, flat skin. She slowly moved toward the bank.
Then, suddenly, Yogesh’s illusion shattered.
And a battle broke out between them.
The beautiful women turned into smoke, as if they had never existed at all. The scent of the flowers had faded.
And then, after some time, an unknown force truly threw him back—as if an invisible hand had seized him, dragged him out of some bottomless void, and slammed him beneath Earth’s sky without warning. But this return was nothing like returning to life. It was not the radiant moment of rebirth, nor a celebration of a new beginning. It was like a trembling flame on the verge of going out—unstable and uncertain. He was no longer the Yogesh he had once been. He was neither body nor breath nor the pulsing warmth of blood. He was only a fading consciousness—a vibration, a faint light that could dissolve into eternal darkness at any moment.
When his consciousness found itself once again beneath Earth’s sky, the first thing he felt was emptiness. This emptiness was not merely physical—it was existential. No weight, no touch, no warmth. The air passed through him, but he could not feel it. He seemed trapped in an invisible dimension—present on Earth, yet disconnected from it. He had become lighter than his own shadow. He felt that if a strong gust came now, he would scatter like a memory.
He was floating above a desolate field. The grass was dry, cracks split the soil, and the distant city lights glimmered faintly. Those lights were alive—homes, people, laughter, tears, struggles, hopes. But he was even fainter than those lights. Slowly, he began to understand that he was neither fully alive nor completely dead. He was trapped in the in-between, where souls gradually fade away—like a name carved into an old stone, slowly erased by the dust of time.
Where am I? he thought.
The words formed inside him, but never became sound. They remained thoughts and dissolved into the air.
He tried to look at his hands. But there were no hands. Only a faint, transparent aura, like a small ripple spreading across still water. He tried to focus his being—as he once focused on his breath while sitting in meditation. But here, there was no breath.
Little by little, he understood—he had been thrown back into the human world. But this return was not a blessing. It was a punishment. He could no longer touch anyone. No one could see him. He could not place a hand on someone’s shoulder to offer comfort. He could not ask anyone for help. He could only watch—and slowly disappear.
He began drifting toward the city. This was not walking—only drifting. Like the wind lifting a dry leaf. People were walking along the streets. Car headlights flashed. Laughter drifted from a house through an open window. The scent of a kitchen rose somewhere nearby—fresh bread and spices. The sound of bells echoed from a temple.