Rowan loved the game. He loved the way his body moved, the wind brushing his hair back as he ran. The ball felt like an extension of himself, a small, plastic sphere that held the power to shift the momentum of the game, and with it, his place in the world.
It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, just like any other. The kind of day that was meant for nothing but play, free from the weight of homework, chores, or the nagging thought that his mind was always somewhere else. His friends were scattered across the street, some playing basketball, others throwing a football back and forth, the sound of laughter filling the air. But Rowan was different. He wasn't playing football. No, he had decided, for that day at least, that he was going to play soccer—alone.
The others had always teased him for being easily distracted, jumping from one game to the next without any real focus. But today, he felt something different. Maybe it was the way the sun hung lazily above the street, casting long shadows across the pavement. Or maybe it was just the excitement of the game itself. But Rowan's mind had settled, his thoughts clear, and for once, everything felt... right.
He had kicked the ball far down the street, away from the group, letting it roll with the momentum of his energy. He ran after it, his legs burning with the effort. There was a sense of freedom in this simple act, the joy of movement, of release.
The sound of laughter from his friends faded into the background. The street was empty now.
Rowan's feet hit the pavement with a satisfying rhythm as he closed the gap between himself and the ball. He could almost hear the thump of the ball against the ground as he approached it, and the satisfaction of stopping it just short of the curb.
He could feel his heart racing, a mixture of excitement and pure, unadulterated joy.
The ball had stopped near the edge of the sidewalk. Just a few more steps and he would get it. He reached for it, his fingers brushing the cool surface of the ball. And then, in an instant, everything changed.
It was the screeching sound of tires that hit him first, cutting through the hum of the world like a knife. Rowan's body froze mid-motion, the ball just inches from his reach. He turned his head, barely able to register the sound of the vehicle barreling toward him.
Everything felt as if it slowed down. The sound of the tires against the road was deafening now, drowning out the noise of everything else. His body, frozen in place, seemed disconnected from his mind. He wanted to move, to run, but his limbs refused to obey. He couldn't think. He couldn't do anything. The world had gone cold, as if time itself had stopped.
The car loomed closer, the engine roaring louder, the rubber meeting the asphalt in a frantic, desperate screech. And then, in the blink of an eye, the sound of metal crashing against metal filled the air, followed by a sickening thud as the car slammed into him.
Rowan didn't feel the pain at first. He didn't feel anything.
His mind, which was already scattered from the rush of the game, suddenly became aware of his surroundings in a fragmented, disjointed way. There was the feeling of weightlessness, the brief sensation of his body being lifted off the ground, then nothing but the cold, hard slap of the pavement beneath him. His vision blurred as he tumbled through the air, and for a split second, everything felt like a dream—a strange, surreal moment that didn't belong to him.
He could hear the screeching tires again, but it was distant now, muffled. His eyes fluttered, trying to focus on the figure standing in front of him, the man behind the wheel of the car. But everything was distorted, like he was seeing the world through a foggy lens.
Rowan's chest felt tight. His breathing came in ragged gasps, each inhale like a jagged knife tearing through his lungs. His vision started to fade, the edges of his sight curling into blackness. He could no longer make sense of the world around him—only the sharp, dizzying sensation of not knowing what was real, what was happening, or why he felt so cold.
For a moment, there was no pain. No sound. Just the slow, suffocating silence that enveloped him. His heart beat louder in his chest, the only thing that seemed to remind him that he was still alive, still fighting.
His friends. He couldn't see them, couldn't hear them anymore. The world was slipping away. His thoughts raced, jumping from one idea to another, but they were no longer coherent. He wanted to call out, to ask for help, to scream. But all that escaped him was a faint whisper, lost in the wind.
Everything around him felt... far away. The faces of his friends, their shouts, the laughter from earlier—all of it seemed like a distant memory, slipping further and further out of reach. There was nothing left but the endless stretch of silence.
And then, slowly, his mind began to fade. The world grew dimmer, more distant, until all that remained was the void.
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Rowan awoke to a sensation of cold. The kind of cold that felt like it sank deep into your bones, like it would never leave. His eyes opened slowly, as if they were weighed down by the very air around him. He blinked, confused, disoriented—his mind struggling to piece together where he was.
At first, he could only see darkness, the kind that swallows everything whole. The silence around him was absolute, oppressive. Then, as his senses sharpened, he realized he was lying in water. It wasn't the soft lapping of a lake or the comforting splash of a river. No, this water felt different—thick, suffocating, like it was trying to pull him deeper with each passing second.
He tried to sit up, but the moment he moved, the water seemed to push back, rising higher around him. The current was gentle at first, then became relentless, pulling him under. His heart pounded in his chest, the fear growing as he struggled to keep his head above the surface.
Around him, there were others. Figures in the water, some floating like him, others sinking lower into the depths, their forms growing indistinct and blurry as they vanished into the murk. The water was dark—almost black—stretching endlessly in every direction. And in the distance, the sounds of people crying out for help, their voices drowned by the oppressive silence of the place.
Rowan's breath hitched in his throat as he looked around, his panic growing. His body trembled, unable to keep itself from being pulled deeper into the river's grasp.
For a moment, it all felt too surreal. The last thing he remembered was the car—the screech of tires, the impact. That was real. That was undeniable. So this, this had to be real too. He had to be dead.
The realization hit him like a stone to the chest.
I'm dead.
His mind raced, a flood of thoughts crashing over him. He remembered a tale from the mythology his father used to tell him—a story of souls that, upon their death, were sent to a river. The River Lethe. The souls of the dead would be cast into its waters, and as they sank deeper, they would be obliterated, their memories lost, their essence consumed by the river.
The coldness in the water now made sense. He could feel it creeping into his skin, his muscles, his very soul. This wasn't just a river; it was a place of finality.
Rowan gasped, trying to reach for something, anything to hold onto, but there was nothing. His hands grasped at the water, but it only slipped through his fingers, colder than before. His heart raced with fear. If the stories were true, he didn't have much time. The river would take him—obliterate him, just as it had to so many others before him.
Tears welled up in his eyes. He had nothing left. His life had been stolen from him when he was just a child, and now...now it seemed as if this was the end. The life he had lost, the friends he would never see again, the future he would never have—all of it had been for nothing.
The water rose higher. He was sinking.
And then, just as the darkness began to close in around him, just as the river's current was about to pull him under for good, a sudden, strong hand grabbed his wrist.
Rowan's body jerked in surprise, his eyes wide with fear. He felt himself being pulled up, the hand strong, determined. The water around him churned as he was yanked from the suffocating depths, his head breaking the surface with a gasp.
Gasping for air, he felt the grip on his wrist tighten, steadying him, holding him in place as the current swirled around them both. His mind was too foggy to comprehend what was happening—who was holding him, or how they had appeared—but for the first time since he'd woken up in the river, there was something else: a sense of hope.
Rowan didn't know how long he had been sinking or how close he had come to being lost to the river. All he knew was that he was no longer alone. The hand was pulling him upward, pulling him from the river's depths, and for a moment, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't quite done yet.
And then, as the water continued to swirl around them, he felt his feet touch something solid beneath the surface. A ground of some sort, though it was hard to tell what kind of place he was in now. The pull of the river seemed to lessen, and as his legs found purchase, he stood, finally able to catch his breath.
His chest heaved, and the fear still gnawed at the edges of his mind. But the hand that gripped his wrist didn't let go. It steadied him, guiding him through the water, to wherever this new place was.
Rowan's head swam with questions, confusion, and terror, but in the end, he couldn't stop himself from asking the only one that mattered:
"Who are you?"
But the figure didn't answer. Instead, they gently pulled him forward, away from the river's edge, guiding him to safety.
And as Rowan followed, the world around him seemed to shift, the darkness beginning to break into something else. Something new.
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Rowan stood, his legs unsteady beneath him, the water still swirling around his ankles. The weight of what had just happened—his death, his near obliteration, the mysterious hand that pulled him from the depths—still pressed heavily on him. He had no idea where he was, or why, or how. The only thing that was certain was the figure before him.
The man was tall, draped in a cloak that obscured much of his form, but there was something in his stance, in the way he held himself, that made Rowan feel strangely at ease. The man's face was hidden beneath the shadow of his hood, but Rowan could sense that he was no ordinary being. There was something otherworldly about him—something that felt ancient and eternal.
The man's voice, when it finally came, was low and smooth, like the murmur of a distant ocean.
"Two paths," he said, his words carrying weight, as if they had been spoken a thousand times before. He gestured before him, and Rowan's gaze followed. Ahead, there were two distinct ways: one leading into an abyss of darkness, and the other into a thick fog that seemed to stretch endlessly, swirling in a way that was both inviting and mysterious.
"The first path," the man continued, "leads into the darkness, the afterlife. You'll be with your family, your loved ones. You'll rest in peace."
Rowan's throat tightened. His mind immediately flashed to the thought of his family—his mother and father, safe and alive back home. But then, as quickly as the thought appeared, it was overrun by the image of his grandmother. She had been the one to raise him after his parents were always away, the one who had been his rock through everything.
Would they be waiting for me there?
His grandmother—her laugh, her kind eyes—would be there, waiting to hold him again. The darkness promised that. Peace. Togetherness. But it felt like a heavy decision, one not to be taken lightly. Could he really leave everything behind so easily?
But the man's hand gestured toward the second path, and Rowan's gaze followed. It was a fog, thick and swirling, beckoning with the promise of something else—something unknown, something more.
"The second path leads into the fog, where you'll be reincarnated. You'll live again, though you won't remember anything from your past life. It will be a chance to start anew," the man explained, his voice low but clear.
Reincarnation. Rowan's heart skipped at the idea. A second chance at life. Could he do that? Could he really start over?
But with that choice came the uncertainty of who he would become. A blank slate, wiped of his past. Would he ever see his grandmother again? Would he find his family once more? Would they remember him?
Rowan's thoughts swirled, the decision feeling far too weighty for someone so young. He remembered his grandmother's comforting words from years ago: "Life is a series of choices, Rowan. Every moment, every breath, leads us down a different path. You have to choose what's best for you, not anyone else."
But what was best for him now?
He glanced back at the first path, the darkness, where his family might be waiting for him. The thought of being with his grandmother again made his chest ache. Yet, there was something about the fog, something about the idea of a new beginning, that called to him too. It was an unknown, but it felt like a chance—a chance to truly live, in a way that wasn't bound by the past.
He inhaled sharply, the weight of his decision pressing on him.
Finally, after a long pause, Rowan spoke.
"I'll walk into the fog," he said, his voice steady but unsure. "I need a second chance. I need to live again."
The man's face softened. "Wise," he said. "When I was your age, I made the same choice. I decided to walk into the fog. You'll find it's not as simple as you might think, but it's a chance at something new. Something... different."
Rowan nodded, a flicker of resolve in his heart. There was still so much he didn't know, but he knew this: he wasn't ready to give up on life. Not yet.
He turned toward the fog, his breath steadying as he took his first step toward the unknown.
As he walked, a lingering thought crossed his mind. The man had given him the choice, but Rowan couldn't help but ask.
"What about you, sir?" Rowan asked. "Don't you need to leave too?"
The man smiled softly, his expression gentle but bittersweet. Then he raised his hand, pulling back his hood, and Rowan saw his face for the first time.
The man's golden hair shone in the dim light, strands that seemed to catch the very essence of the light around them, almost as if the sun had once kissed them. His eyes were blue—brilliant, like the ocean on a perfect day, deep and vast, with an otherworldly calm. His face, dotted with freckles across the bridge of his nose, was kind but carried the weight of untold years. He was ageless, timeless, yet there was a sense of knowing in his eyes, as though he had lived countless lifetimes.
"I still need to find someone else before I can leave," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "Hell, we might meet again someday."
Rowan's brow furrowed, but before he could ask further, the man turned his gaze toward the fog, his expression distant. Something in that look told Rowan that there was more to this story than he would ever understand, at least not now.
With a final, knowing smile, the man lowered his hood once more, his features becoming hidden in the shadow once again.
Rowan's gaze lingered on him for a moment before he turned, stepping further into the fog, the cold mist swirling around him. He could still feel the weight of the man's eyes on his back, the words he had spoken echoing in his mind: We might meet again someday.
As Rowan moved forward, he couldn't help but think of his grandmother. Maybe in the next life, he thought, we will find each other again.
The air thickened as the fog pressed in around him, but for the first time since the accident, Rowan didn't feel afraid. He felt a quiet sense of peace. His feet barely made a sound as he walked, and as he glanced down, he noticed something strange. His hands—his skin was smooth, youthful. His hair, golden and soft like sunlight. His eyes, when he looked into the water that trickled beside him, were a brilliant blue, like the ocean's depth.
He couldn't place it, but there was something about him that seemed familiar—like he had known this feeling, this form, before.