Closure

They said he died tragically. Said he perished, drowned, in the stagnant pools of Lake Laogai, said that he died a hero, said quatrains and sestets (those he heard as paeans sung). All because he did something human.

Jet shifted in limbo, pinched at the flickering bits of morning hue, swearing that he wasn't dead.

"Of course you're not," because I saved you.

"Who are you?" what are you.

She entered focus, a trick lens breathed over hot and opaque—dispersing light through phantom fog. The Painted Lady lifted her veil (erased his fears, unclasped hope). And gingerly, she kissed him awake.

…just like sleeping beauty reversed…

And she told him a fairytale: of a young boy who almost died and was recovered from a watery grave. Because he had a task to accomplish and a lifetime of redemption to finish.

"You've been asleep for days," ignoring his question, continuing rapidly (wrapped medicinal cloths around his wounds), "But you will be better soon. I was trained as a physician."

—before they made her a deity

"Are you some kind of evil ghost?"

"If I were would you still be breathing?"

He supposed not and ventured another guess. "Are you…human?"

"A long time ago."

"Where—what—is this place?"

"My home."

Jet examined the room: spacious but sparse. White walls with a white bed. Outside the solitary window, he spied birds taking flight. Beyond that was a meadow, was a path and stream (and the boat that led him here). All completely white and barren.

He saw the future and the past reflected in everything, realized the world he knew was only a fabrication. This was the realm of the gods. And he was just a mortal boy on the verge of mortality.

"Thank you," Jet whispered and laid down to rest.