They stepped out into the air. It was a soft gray that surrounded them and muffled their voices as they followed the sidewalk. She asked questions. He answered or did not answer.
Had he gone through this? No. He was not like her – like them. She and they were made in His image. He was merely a servant. An angel? Perhaps. You always have such quaint names for us, he said. No wings, no halo. Just a collector. That’s all. He could do this Himself, you know. This just seems to make it easier for you, for now.
What happens next? I don’t know. There are many doors left to open and she has to decide which ones to take. Will I feel again? Oh, yes. Most assuredly. But there is a journey ahead before that happens.
Why? You have to observe yourself outside yourself. Live your life again as a watcher and understand it. Accept your life or deny it. That’s the choice that makes the difference. That is all I know.
How long? Time is only an organizational construct, it means nothing when you are outside it.
Heaven or hell? That’s the consequence. He already knows the choice you will make, but you have to make it anyway. That is the way it always is.
They came to a wrought iron gate. A cemetery? No. But you have to go inside.
She opened the door, looked back and smiled, and walked inside. As the rain began falling again, he turned and walked home. It had been particularly difficult this time. He had lied again about his ability to feel. His soul was firmly in place. Had been for centuries. His curse was the deep connection he felt with people he would never know and could never know. Over and over. Eternally.
It was hell.