White Space

A forest of silver stems stretched into an expanse of pale petals, a sea of white under a sky that did not exist. The ground, soft yet firm, cradled the weight of a frail body, its touch both gentle and intrusive, a whisper of something alive beneath the surface.

A boy lay there, eyes shut, adrift in the void of his own making.

Above him, slender metal poles stood like skeletal trees, their limbs burdened with swollen, golden sacs. They pulsed faintly, a lifeline, a tether. Translucent tubes trailed down like veins of glass, linking his arms to their silent nourishment.

His skin, fragile and marred, bore the evidence of endless punctures—purple blossoms blooming across his limbs, metal spines still embedded deep within, glinting like buried nails under his flesh.

A flicker. Then another. His eyelids stirred, fluttering open to an unbroken world of white. But he was no longer lying down. His bare feet pressed into the soft expanse as he stood, an IV pole gliding beside him, its burden dragging with each step.

His gown, like everything else, was white—too white, as if existence had been scrubbed clean, leaving only the pale remains of something once vibrant. The world had been drained, bled dry of its hues, yet it was vast, boundless, stretching in every direction like an unfinished dream.

He walked.

Before long, a window floated into existence. Curtains draped over its frame, veiling whatever lay beyond, yet the light behind it cast shadows upon the cloth—three silhouettes, shifting, restless. Two loomed over a smaller one, their forms wavering, incomplete. The boy inched closer, the fabric rippling as if breathing. The shadows moved, and suddenly, the largest one lashed out.

A violent strike. A stagger. The smaller shadow collapsed, a puppet with severed strings. The other, slightly larger, hesitated before kneeling beside the fallen form, hands reaching, trembling. The boy watched as the larger shadow tried to lift the fallen one, shaking it desperately, but there was no response. The silence stretched—until it didn't.

A sound.

It began as a whisper, a thread of sorrow unravelling into the air. A cry, broken and torn, bled through the fabric of reality. It was the sound of grief given shape, a voice wailing into the void, clawing at something unseen. And then the shadows dissolved, melting into the light behind the curtain.

The boy barely had time to process before the world around him twisted. More windows flickered into existence, floating, surrounding him like spectres of forgotten memories. Each held its own scene, its own shadows, and now the sounds came in waves.

A shadow hunched over a wall-mounted telephone, its form crumpled, its hands pressed against the receiver as if trying to hold onto something already lost. The sobs that escaped were strangled and fractured, caught between despair and disbelief. The receiver trembled, held but unable to reach.

Another window—another scene. A larger shadow carried the smaller one on its back, an IV pole trailing behind, tubes stretching like leashes, binding the small figure to the burdened form carrying it forward. The weight was unbearable, yet it walked, dragging, dragging, until the world itself seemed to pull it under.

The voices grew. Sobs, whispers, quiet wails, choked screams. They overlapped, clashing, swelling into a chorus of grief that drowned the air, suffocating.

The boy clutched his head, his breath ragged, his chest tightening as if unseen hands had wrapped around his ribs, squeezing. The white beneath his feet withered. The petals darkened, curling inward like burnt paper, the stems twisting into gnarled fingers reaching up, grasping.

The windows closed in.

The voices became sharper, needle-like, piercing through his skull. His knees hit the ground, his fingers digging into his arms, gripping, clawing, as if trying to hold himself together.

But the pain—it hurt, the pain. It wasn't just his. It was hers. It was all of theirs. The sorrow, the regret, the loss—it burrowed under his skin, carving itself into his bones, filling the hollow spaces inside him with something unbearable.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted it to stop. He wanted to let go.

Then, warmth.

A touch, featherlight, against his trembling fingers. A presence so gentle, so familiar, it made his breath catch. The voices dulled, receding like a tide, and for the first time, he was afraid to open his eyes. He feared what he might see—feared that it would vanish if he did.

But then, a voice.

"Don't cry... I promised that I wouldn't leave you, remember?"

The boy gasped, his eyes snapping open. Before him, dressed in the same unbroken white as everything else, stood a woman. Her presence was soft, yet undeniable, like a whisper carried through time. He barely managed a word, his voice a mere breath.

"Mother..."

And then he was in her arms. Or perhaps she was in his. It didn't matter. The embrace was real. Solid. He could feel the warmth of her body, the steady rise and fall of her chest.

He clung to her, and she to him, their silence more profound than any words could be. They stood atop a surface that rippled like liquid silver, an endless stretch of reflected white. No beginning. No end.

Tears fell freely.

"I'm sorry," he choked. "I'm so sorry... for everything. For all the pain I caused. I wanted to tell you so much, but it's too late, isn't it?"

She said nothing and only ran her fingers through his hair, listening. And so he spoke. He told her everything, every thought, every regret, as if saying them aloud could make them real, could make this moment last. But with every word, the fear crept in—what if this, too, would disappear? What if she faded before he could say it all?

She only smiled.

"Kazami, dear..."

She cupped his face, her fingers light as the wind. "Kazami, listen to me."

He tried to look away, but she wouldn't let him.

"I wish I could stay," she whispered. "I wish I could listen to your voice forever. Catch up on every moment we lost. But I can't. Not yet. Not when your story isn't finished."

His breath hitched. "But I was never good at anything." His hands curled into fists. "I had nothing. No talent, no strength. I couldn't even stop what happened to you."

She sighed, shaking her head with a knowing smile. Then, gently, she knelt before him. The way she always had when he was a child, brushing off his scrapes, steadying him when he felt small.

"Kazami." She lifted his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze. "That's not true. Not even close."

He swallowed, his vision blurring.

"You were always listening," she continued.

"Taking in the world, every whisper, every unsaid thing. You understood people—better than anyone. Not because you had to, but because you wanted to. That's not nothing. That's rare. That's the talent that you were given at birth."

He let out a bitter laugh. "What's the point of understanding if I still couldn't change anything? If I still—" His voice cracked. "If I still lost you?"

She reached up, brushing his hair back the way she used to when he was younger. "Not all things are meant to be changed, Kazami. Some things are meant to be carried."

His breath shuddered.

"You listen. You understand. You take in the broken pieces of others and make them your own. Not to steal them, not to bear them alone—but to share them." Her voice softened. "That is your strength. And it's not something you lost. It's something you still have."

He clenched his jaw, but she could see it—the slight tremble in his lips.

"You think crying makes you weak," she murmured. "But giving up—that's weakness. Letting the past drown you instead of carrying it forward—that's weakness."

He sucked in a shaky breath.

She smiled, warm and certain. "So cry. Cry as much as you need. And then stand up."

His shoulders shook as a sob finally tore free.

Her hands, once so real, were starting to fade. But still, she held him.

Kazami's fingers curled into trembling fists at his sides. His mother's words had settled deep, like stones in his chest, and he could feel the weight of them pressing down, relentless.

He looked away, staring at the endless, rippling expanse of water surrounding them, before his voice—small, uncertain—finally broke the silence.

"I understand people," he murmured, "but that didn't change anything. It didn't change what happened to her." His voice wavered.

"I still couldn't save her."

His mother sighed, a sound soft as falling petals.

"Kazami," she said gently, "do you think understanding alone is enough? That guilt is enough? Mistakes are part of being alive, but what matters is what you do after." She placed a hand over his. "And you, my son, you are not ready to rest. Not until you make things right."

Her words hit like a pulse of thunder in his heart. Kazami clenched his teeth, his throat tightening as he fought against the rawness rising within him.

He wanted to argue, to say that it was too late, that no matter how much he tried, the past would not change. But then she smiled—soft, knowing, unwavering.

"You can still save her," she whispered.

His mother's hand tightened ever so slightly before she pushed him away—not with force, not with anger, but with love. The kind of love that refused to let him stay shackled to regret.

"Go," she urged, voice steady. "Because if you don't, you will regret it forever. And I won't let that happen to my son."

Kazami felt something inside him crack, splintering like fragile glass. His shoulders shook, and before he could stop himself, the tears fell. His hands rushed to wipe them away, shame burning in his chest. But his mother simply laughed, warm and light like the summer wind.

"My foolish boy," she said, reaching out to brush the tears from his cheek. "You can cry as much as you need to. Crying was never a weakness." She held his face, her touch steady. "Giving up is."

Kazami sobbed, and this time, he didn't try to stop it. He let himself weep in the presence of the one person who had always accepted him fully, unconditionally. His mother smiled, not with pity, but with pride.

Then, finally, he found his resolve.

Kazami inhaled deeply and turned away, his back to her. He could not look back now. His mother's voice, full of quiet strength, called to him one last time.

"Follow the lotus, Kazami. It will lead you home."

His lips trembled. "I love you."

His mother's breath caught, her eyes glistening. "I know… and I'm so proud… proud that it was you who was born as my son."

And then she began to fade, her form dissolving into the mist like ink in water.

Kazami took a step forward.

Under him, a lotus bloomed, its petals unfurling in slow, deliberate grace. The water beneath was impossibly clear, reflecting neither sky nor stars, only the endless depths of his soul.

He took another step.

A whisper of laughter—childish, fleeting—echoed in his ears, the sound of an old memory. His brother was giggling as he tugged on his sleeve, pleading for him to play just one more round of their silly game.

A third step.

The distant chime of wind bells. His mother's voice hummed a lullaby under the glow of the lantern light, her hands weaving warmth into the fabric of their home.

A fourth step.

The sharp crack of splitting wood. His father's voice, rough with exhaustion, scolding him for his recklessness and for his inability to sit still. A lesson unlearned, a love misunderstood.

A fifth step.

The faint rustle of paper. The sound of letters he never sent, words never spoken, regrets woven into every crease and fold.

A sixth step.

Silence.

A hollow, aching silence. The kind that followed after everything was lost, after doors had closed and footsteps had faded. The kind that haunted.

Kazami swallowed. He took one last step.

The seventh.

The lotus beneath his foot unfurled completely, and in that instant, something within him opened as well. He exhaled, a breath deep and freeing, as if releasing a weight he had carried for far too long. He understood now.

The past could not be rewritten. But the future—his future—was still waiting.

And he knew exactly what he must do.