I awoke to nothing but blinding, endless white. For a long, disorienting moment, I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming, if I had died, or if I had simply stepped into the worst kind of fluorescent-lit waiting room imaginable. My eyes scanned the vast, featureless expanse—a place where every direction looked the same, where the white light was so pure it felt as if it were stripping away the layers of my former self.

  I couldn’t recall exactly when I had lost control of my body, or when it had all ended. But here I was, standing in this vast emptiness. Strangely, despite an internal sensation that my flesh had been torn in every direction, I felt completely intact. It was as though some cosmic paradox had preserved me even while it unraveled the very fabric of my existence. I reached out a trembling hand, half-expecting it to disintegrate, but it remained solid and, oddly, warm.

  As I took my first tentative steps, my mind raced with questions. Was this the afterlife? Had I finally crossed over into heaven? I moved slowly, each step echoing in the silence, my bare feet making no sound on the smooth, featureless ground. I looked down at my body and noticed something even more bizarre: I wasn’t wearing any clothes. Normally, I’d be mortified by such exposure, but here, with no one in sight and in this alien environment, I felt strangely unburdened by embarrassment.

  I stood there for what felt like an eternity, examining every inch of myself with a mixture of clinical detachment and childlike wonder. Every detail—my skin, my limbs, even the steady rhythm of my heartbeat—seemed magnified in the stark light of this place. I couldn’t shake the nagging thought, however, that I wasn’t entirely prepared for what lay ahead. A thought, sudden and half-drunken in its irony, whispered in my mind, It isn’t hell, is it?

  Before I could dwell on that question further, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. Startled, I spun around, and for a split second, panic took over. There, emerging from the radiant whiteness behind me, was a figure whose presence was both unsettling and surreal.

  She was a female deity—a being whose very aura radiated a mixture of divine authority and palpable panic. Draped over her head was a sheer, flowing cloth of deep purple that seemed to shimmer as though it were woven from the night sky itself. Her eyes were wide with alarm, and the entire expression on her face spoke of frantic worry as if she had just realized she’d made a colossal mistake.

  “Um—oh my goodness!” she exclaimed, her voice quivering between apology and sheer dismay. Before I could react, she reached out and lightly tapped my shoulder again, as if to confirm my presence. I jerked back with a startled scream, every nerve in my body alight with fear and confusion.

  “Whoa! I—I’m not a—what the—!” I managed to sputter, still half-convinced that I was caught in some terrible hallucination.

  She took a step forward, her gaze both earnest and apologetic. “I’m so terribly sorry!” she said in a tone that was as awkward as it was sincere. “My name is Aria—the God of Misery.”

  I blinked, trying to reconcile her words with the overwhelming situation. “God of Misery?” I repeated, incredulous. My mind reeled. Could it be true? Was I really in the presence of a deity? And what did that even mean—God of Misery?

  Aria’s eyes flickered with an emotion that was hard to pin down—a blend of panic, regret, and something like hope. “To answer your earlier question,” she began hesitantly, “you are not in hell. But, you’re not in heaven either.” She paused, as if choosing her words with extreme care, then continued, “You are in what we gods call the Soul Boundary realm—a sort of… in-between space where we come to influence human souls and whatnot.”

  I took a slow, shuddering breath. The absurdity of it all was almost too much to bear. One minute I was alive, with every ill-fated moment behind me, and now I was here—exposed, confused, and surrounded by blinding white nothingness—and here stood a god, apologizing as though she were a remorseful schoolteacher.

  “Honestly,” Aria added with a self-deprecating chuckle that didn’t quite reach her eyes, “I’m actually quite surprised you aren’t freaking out more.”

  Her words, delivered with a calm that belied the chaos of the moment, made me both laugh and shudder. I couldn’t help but think: Thank God it isn’t hell.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Thank… thank God?” I echoed, my voice shaky as I tried to process this new reality.

  Aria tilted her head slightly and smiled, a wry, almost rueful smile. “You don’t need to thank God—I’m right here, and I’m terribly sorry,” she said, her tone sincere yet laced with a hint of irony that made the situation all the more surreal.

  My heart pounded in my chest, still not fully believing that I was conversing with a divine being. “Why… why are you sorry?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper as I struggled to steady my thoughts.

  Her eyes dropped, and for a long moment, the silence stretched between us, filled only by the unyielding brightness of the realm. When she finally spoke again, her voice was almost choked with remorse.

  “Because… because I’m the reason you had all that dreadful, pitiful bad luck during your lifetime,” she confessed, each word seeming to hang in the air like a heavy burden. “I—I accidentally made you shoulder countless people’s misfortune, their misery, from the moment you were born. And I am so, so, so terribly sorry that this happened. It’s all my fault.”

  I stared at her, shock mingling with a profound sense of disbelief. A god was admitting—no, apologizing—for the relentless cascade of misfortunes that had defined my existence. For a brief, disbelieving moment, I could hardly process the implications. Here was a divine being, kneeling in the very space where my soul hovered between life and… whatever came next, confessing that my suffering had been orchestrated by her careless error.

  My initial reaction was a cocktail of emotions—anger, pity, confusion—and above all, a strange, desperate hope. Perhaps, if a god could apologize for my past, maybe there was a way to mend the broken pieces of my life. With a fake, uncertain smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, I managed to say, “It’s… it’s okay. I mean, it wasn’t all bad, I guess.”

  Aria’s eyes flickered, and I could see in them a mixture of relief and lingering regret. “I… I’m glad you can forgive me, even just a little,” she murmured. The sincerity in her voice made me believe that she truly meant it. She took another step closer, her figure delicate against the overwhelming whiteness of the realm.

  After a moment of silence that stretched longer than I cared to endure, Aria cleared her throat and, with a hesitant smile, said, “I’d like to make it up to you, if you’ll allow me.” Her voice was gentle, as if she were about to offer something precious yet dangerous.

  I frowned slightly, trying to decipher the meaning behind her words. “Make it up to me?” I echoed. “How?”

  She seemed to hesitate, then looked me directly in the eyes, her gaze earnest. “Do you want to be reincarnated into another world?” she asked, her tone tentative as if she feared the very weight of her proposal.

  My mind reeled. Reincarnation? Another world? The idea was as absurd as it was tantalizing. In that singular moment, suspended between confusion and the remnants of hope, the question hung in the luminous air between us. There was no rush, no imperative beyond the simple, fateful inquiry. The white expanse around us was silent, waiting for my answer.

  I stared at her, feeling the enormity of this decision, even if I barely understood it. Every moment in my previous life had been a cruel joke played by fate—and now, here I was, being offered a chance to press reset on everything. The prospect was both thrilling and terrifying. Could I really abandon the misery that had been my constant companion and start anew? Or was this just another twist in a cosmic farce?

  For a long, drawn-out moment, I said nothing. The silence was heavy with possibility, each second stretching out like an eternity. The weight of my past, the sorrow of countless failures, and the faint, stubborn ember of hope that I’d nurtured all my life converged in that one decisive pause.

  Finally, I managed to find my voice, though it trembled as much from emotion as from fear. “I… I don’t know,” I admitted slowly, my words barely audible in the vast emptiness. “It sounds… like a chance, like a chance to start over. But I’m scared. I’m scared of what might come next.”

  Aria’s expression softened, and for a moment, I saw genuine compassion in her eyes—a glimpse of a being who understood the torment of regret. “I know,” she said quietly, her tone almost a whisper. “I’m sorry doesn’t even begin to cover it. But I promise you, this is not a trick or another punishment. I want to help you find something… better. A world where perhaps your suffering can finally be undone.”

  Her words, as fragile as they were, sparked something inside me—a faint glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t destined to be a punchline in the gods’ cruel joke forever. And so, despite every instinct urging caution, despite every memory of heartbreak warning me against it, I found myself nodding slowly.

  “Yes,” I finally said, my voice steadier than before, even as my heart pounded wildly. “I want to try. I want to be given that chance.”

  Aria’s face broke into a tentative, relieved smile—a smile that seemed to light up even the relentless white around us. “Then it is decided,” she murmured softly. “I will set things in motion for your reincarnation.”

  And with that, as the question still hung in the air—a question that promised a new beginning in an as-yet-unknown world—the white expanse around us seemed to shimmer with the promise of change. I stood there, exposed and uncertain, on the threshold of a new life, while Aria’s apologetic gaze and earnest words lingered in my mind.