OBSIDIAN.

A sudden jolt, and I find myself in a dark, smoke-filled room, standing in front of a bassinet, bouncing an infant girl on my shoulder. Beside the bassinet is a bed, occupied by a woman whose face is obscured by strands of smoke.

I glance around. A bed, monitors, drips. “This is a hospital.”

Terror grips me as I examine my body, my hands, and my clothing. The room is consumed by darkness and smoke. A monitor near the bed is filthy and lifeless, its screen black. The woman in the hospital bed lies unconscious.

As I bounce the child, I whisper, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.” Gently placing her back into the bassinet, I scan the room. Beside the bassinet, the woman remains still in the bed. To my left, a man sits in a recliner, his face hidden by a hospital blanket.

The last time I appeared in this room, I held the newborn in my arms, showing her to the woman who smiled through tears. At the time, she resembled my wife; her mother. I remember that day: smiles, tears, love, congratulations, and family. The look on her face as she saw our daughter for the first time is etched in my memory. I was the most excited, brimming with pride and warmth; a chance to rewrite my story, to create a family of my own.

Through the window to the left of the bed, now shut, the sun once bathed the room in golden light. That labour had been short but intense.

I recall sitting behind her in the delivery room, holding her in my arms. “Come on, baby, push.” Sweat streamed down her face, and I wiped every drop with my shirt as she screamed. “You’ve got this. We’ve got this.” I kissed her cheek as she squeezed my hand numb. The gentle doctor and nurses guided her through every step.

Few moments in life have brought me as much joy as that Wednesday afternoon. While she slept off the exhaustion, I stood beside her, cradling that tiny girl. At that moment, I was more vulnerable than ever before, holding back tears. I loved her. I loved her mother. I loved my life. Losing everything, only to gain so much, felt like the universe’s ultimate gift.

I even pulled the doctor aside to thank her, hugging her, for bringing my firstborn into the world. A girl and her twin brother. I admit, I was happier for the girl. She, I imagined, would have her mother’s backbone: persistent, fiery, and adorable, incapable of backing down. The boy, I feared, might inherit more of my lesser traits—being more like who I was than who I wanted to be.

This wasn’t just a dream; it felt real. Every detail: the sound of her screams, the pain in my fingers, the warmth of the doctor’s embrace, the texture of the sheets, the fine vellus hairs on her arms, even the sharp scent of antiseptic.

But tonight, I’m back in this room. Nothing is as I left it. The cheerful light is gone. Instead, darkness and smoke have crept in, smothering everything. I step toward the bassinet. There lies my daughter, her tiny face pale, her lips chapped and blue.

Panic takes over as I search for the second bassinet. My attention shifts to the man slumped in the hospital chair. His face emerges from the smoke, and I realize, “It’s me.”

Watching myself unconscious in the chair feels surreal. The room that once celebrated life is now cloaked in gloom as if consumed by flames. The silence is deafening; no beeping monitors, no alarms, no flickering fire alarms.

I move toward the woman in the bed, her chest still. “What happened?” My voice echoes in the void.

Suddenly, banging erupts at the door behind me. Startled, I spin around. The light seeps around its edges, growing brighter with each pounding. Recognizing the urgency, I brace myself. “Do something. Now.”

With a surge of strength, I rush at the door, splitting into ten versions of myself; all the iterations of me. Together, we ram into it, shoulder to hinge, until it bursts open. A flood of doctors and nurses streams in, their forms passing through me as if I’m not there.

One doctor scoops the woman into his arms, rushing her into the hallway. A nurse wheels the bassinet out. “Get them to the OR, now!” echoes through the chaos.

I follow them into the corridor, running beside the gurneys. The hallway stretches endlessly, empty save for the race against time. At the T-junction, I sense eyes watching me. Turning, I saw her: the doctor I had hugged. She stands in the waiting room, hands clasped over her pristine designer bag, unmoving.

My blood boils. “What did you do?” I storm toward her, lifting her by her collar. “What the fuck did you do?” My fists fly, but as I hit her, I see myself; angry, broken.

Regaining focus, I return to the OR. Nurses are attaching machines to my wife, while a team performs compressions on my daughter. I pace between them, desperate. “Help her. Help them.”

Flatline after flatline. “Keep going. Just get a beat,” I plead.

The walls of the OR morph into stone, and I realize where I am. This is limbo; a place where souls deliver their final messages before crossing over.

“No. Not yet,” I mutter. Racing out of the OR, I break through the door to limbo. The wind is fierce, the sky a swirling vortex of light, souls ascending in spirals. I spot my wife’s soul and throw a rope to my past selves. Together, we pull her back from the edge of the light.

Returning to the OR, I collapse, watching as life reenters their bodies. The flatlines give way to a steady beep. Relief washes over me as I’m ushered out of the room.

In the waiting area, she stands again, serene. She extends her hand. “Ready?”

Still breathless, I take it. “They’ll be okay now. Let’s go.”

Together, we step into the darkness and stars.

Welcome to the universe.