Because I am almost done with one of my peripheral stories. I got hit with this one because I was thinking about my life, and how I am living it and likely how I am going to die. excuse me while I work out my existential crisis as I grapple with the person I am, with the person I want to be and getting them to love each other. Original story just putting a familiar face to it. I would really like notes on questions that this story brings up for you, so that in later drafts I may be able to clarify. Thank you so much in advance. S.K.

Prologue: Death

I didn't see it coming. One minute I was walking, mindlessly scrolling through my phone like I always do—staying out of the way, not bothering anyone—the next, my foot caught something slick.

Before I could react, my world tipped. I didn't even register the absurdity of it at first—a damn puddle. A stupid, shallow puddle in the middle of the sidewalk. My body flew backward, legs flailing, and for a split second, I thought I might recover, that I could catch myself.

But no.

Gravity had other plans.

I hit the concrete hard, the wind knocked clean out of me as my head cracked against the pavement. And for a second, I just lay there, staring up at the cloudy sky, stunned.

It would have been funny if it wasn't so... tragic.

A puddle? Was this really how it ended? After 38 years of playing it safe, I was going out like this?

But before I could even laugh at the absurdity of it, it all started to unravel—the slideshow of my life flashing before my eyes, but not in the way I'd expected. There weren't great accomplishments or happy moments filled with love and adventure. No triumphant montage. It was just... bland. Scene after scene of me doing nothing. *Choosing* nothing.

I remembered when I first got the job at Henderson & Clark, that excitement I'd had about finally being on my own. But that excitement had died pretty quickly, hadn't it? I stayed on in that dead-end position for twelve years because, hey, at least it paid the rent, right? At least I wasn't unemployed. At least I wasn't fired for asking for what I was worth.

Underpaid and underappreciated, I had let them walk all over me, terrified that one wrong move, one complaint, would have me packing my desk. Promotions came and went—to the fresh faces, the risk-takers—while I just stayed in my lane, grateful for the scraps.

And then came the memories of love—well, lack of it. I saw him. The *one* boyfriend I'd ever let in, if you could even call him that. Scott. His stupid grin, the way he used to call me *his good girl.* The way I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, someone had finally chosen me. But even that had blown up in my face. Three months of pretending we had something real, only to find out he was cheating the whole time.

I should've kicked him out, screamed, thrown his things onto the street. But I didn't. I just cried in my apartment and let the fear settle in. The fear that maybe this was all I was worth—being someone's second option. Their backup plan. So I stopped trying after that. Turned down anyone who looked my way, put up walls so high, no one even *bothered* to scale them. I was 38 years old and still a virgin because, in the back of my mind, there was always that tiny, nagging voice: *What if you get hurt again? What if they leave you? What if they give you some disease?*

I never let anyone close enough to know me. Not really. I made sure of that.

I kept myself safe.

And yet, here I was, lying on a cold sidewalk, the back of my head throbbing, the air too thin in my lungs, my chest tight. The puddle that took me out shimmering beside me, mocking me with its mundanity.

I thought about all the things I never did. All the risks I never took. There was that job offer from Chicago two years ago, the one I turned down because I was too afraid of starting over. Too afraid I'd fail. I remembered the night I almost told Danny, the guy from accounting, that I liked him—he had asked me out for drinks, and I had said no because… why? Because what if it went wrong?

Every memory, every moment that flashed by was like a slap to the face. I realized it wasn't that nothing had ever happened to me. It's that I never *let* anything happen. I played it safe, always. I was the one holding myself back, keeping everyone at arm's length.

And now I had nothing but regrets.

A dull numbness started spreading through my body, and I knew. I knew this was it. I was going to die here, alone, on this stupid sidewalk because I was always too scared to live.

I wanted to scream, to take it all back, to run into the street and kiss the first person I saw, quit my job, jump on a plane, do *anything* but lie here and die like this. But I couldn't. It was too late.

As my vision blurred, I thought about all the things I could've been, could've done—if only I hadn't been so afraid. If only I had just… lived.

And then, the world went dark.

I woke up standing.

Which, considering I was pretty sure I had just *died* on the sidewalk, was my first sign that something was seriously off.

The second sign? Everything around me was white. *Painfully* white. Like, "whoever designed this place seriously hates color" white. No walls, no ceiling, no floor—just an infinite, featureless void.

"Oh great," I muttered to myself, "I'm in the Apple Store."

Before I could fully process the sheer weirdness of my surroundings, a door appeared. Just... popped into existence. One second, there was nothing, and then—bam—door. It didn't even have a doorknob. It was like someone designed it and then said, "Eh, details aren't important."

The door slid open soundlessly, and in walked... well, I'm not sure what I expected, but it wasn't this. A guy in a tailored suit—clean cut, corporate-looking, and disturbingly cheery. He was holding a clipboard.

Clipboard guy*.

"Hi, Tori! Welcome!" His voice had the kind of peppy enthusiasm you'd expect from a cruise director or the host of a morning talk show.

I blinked at him. "Where am I?"

He flashed me a smile so bright it was almost blinding. "Oh, you're in Heaven's *waiting area*."

"...The waiting area?"

"Yep! You're not in Heaven *yet.* Think of this as the lobby."

I looked around at the white void. "The lobby looks like a dental office that gave up on having personality."

He chuckled, like I'd told a joke, and clicked his pen. "Love that! Great sense of humor! So! First things first, Tori—congratulations! You're back in Purgatory!"

Wait. What?*

I felt my stomach drop—or at least, I would have, if I still had a stomach. "Back? What do you mean 'back'?"

Clipboard Guy's smile wavered slightly, and he tapped at his clipboard like he was flipping through some invisible pages. "Ah, yes. This is your *seventh* time in Purgatory."

I stared at him, my mouth hanging open. "Seventh time?"

"Uh-huh!" he said, a little too cheerfully. "And since seven's a *heavenly* number, you've been upgraded! You get to attend a *reprogramming seminar* this time around. Isn't that exciting?"

No. No, it wasn't. "What the hell does that mean?"

Clipboard Guy's smile widened, and I swear, if he didn't stop grinning like that, I was going to smack him—assuming I could even touch anything in this weird afterlife space.

"Well, it's pretty simple!" he said, clapping his hands together. "You've wasted your life seven times now, so we're going to help you stop doing that. Lucky you!"

I blinked. "Wasted my life?"

He nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! You know—playing it safe, never really taking chances, not allowing yourself to *live.*" He air-quoted that last word, like the idea of living was some outlandish concept.

"Wow," I muttered, crossing my arms. "That's... harsh."

Clipboard Guy just smiled harder. "Honesty is the best policy, Tori. Besides, after seven times, I think you know the drill. It's time for a little... adjustment. A little rewiring of the ol' brain."

"Right, because slipping on a puddle and dying wasn't embarrassing enough."

"Hey! Look on the bright side!" he said, his enthusiasm never faltering. "You don't have to relive *that* again. You're moving up the chain!"

I rubbed my temples. "Okay, so let me get this straight. I've died *seven times*—"

"—Correct—"

"—because I didn't live my life right, and now you're sending me to some celestial version of a self-help seminar?"

"Exactly!" He beamed. "You're going to *love* it! It's got everything—motivational speeches, group activities, personal growth exercises. You'll come out of it feeling *refreshed* ready to go back to Earth and live your life the way you were *meant* to."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "And what if I don't want to go back? What if I just want to skip all this and, I don't know, move on?"

Clipboard Guy's smile faltered for a split second, but then it was back. "Well, that's not how it works, Tori! You can't move on until you learn your lesson. And trust me, after seven tries, you *really* need this seminar."

Fantastic. I was dead, I was in Purgatory—for the *seventh* time—and now I was stuck in a cosmic life-coaching session.

I sighed. "So when does this 'seminar' start?"

"Right now?," he said, still grinning like this was the best thing ever. "But first,"

I looked around then back at him. "This feels like a nightmare."

He shrugged. "Could be worse. You could've slipped on a banana peel."

I groaned.

Clipboard Guy kept his unnerving grin as he ushered me through the door. "Now, Tori, you're going to be here for a *while*—nine months to be exact," he said, like he was explaining a spa package. "Long enough to be born again, you know?"

I raised an eyebrow at him, still trying to digest everything. "Nine *months*? For a seminar?"

He nodded, entirely too pleased with himself. "Oh, but it's not just any seminar. We'll be guiding you through daily past-life regression viewings where you can analyze each life, pinpoint where you went wrong, and reprogram that cautious little brain of yours. Doesn't that sound fun?"

"Yeah, a blast," I muttered under my breath, already imagining myself sitting through nine months of motivational speeches and soul-crushing self-reflection. Perfect.

Clipboard Guy motioned for me to follow, leading me through what I could only describe as a cosmic hotel lobby. It was all glass, marble, and golden light, like someone had mixed up "luxury resort" with "afterlife purgatory."

As we passed by a large, sleek desk that looked like a concierge station, a woman's voice caught my attention. I glanced over and saw her—a striking figure with dark hair and an aura of frustration swirling around her. She was in a heated argument with the concierge.

"I *need* to go to the seminar this time," she said, her voice sharp and insistent. "I'm obviously missing something. Let me just... sign up!"

The concierge didn't even flinch, remaining perfectly calm and polite. "Ma'am, we understand your urgency, but you've chosen to go back six times now. It's not required—"

"*This time, it is," she snapped, and there was something in the way she stood, the fire in her eyes that made me freeze. I didn't know why I was staring, but I couldn't help it. The intensity in her voice, her frustration—it was magnetic.

I tore my eyes away, suddenly aware of how long I'd been watching her. And *feeling things.*

Wait. Was I seriously... aroused?*

In Heaven?

I mean, technically, this was purgatory, but still. *Was that allowed here?*

Clipboard Guy kept walking, completely oblivious to my existential panic. But as I hurried to catch up, I caught the woman's eyes fix on me. Her gaze was intense, sharp, like she was seeing through me. And not in a creepy way, but in a way that made my skin prickle.

My face flushed, heat creeping up my neck. I quickly looked away, my heart doing some weird thing it hadn't done in... God, years. What the hell was wrong with me? I was *dead*—I shouldn't be getting flustered like a teenager just because some woman gave me a look.

Clipboard Guy glanced over his shoulder, noticing me falling behind. "Ah, yes, some people choose to take the seminar voluntarily," he said, as if the woman's frustration was perfectly normal. "She must be one of those. Some souls feel like they're missing something and keep coming back until they figure it out. You, however, well... you're here because you *need* it." He flashed that too-bright grin again.

"Great," I muttered. "And what, exactly, is she missing?"

Clipboard Guy shrugged. "Who knows? Everyone's looking for something. Love, purpose, fulfillment... it's different for everyone." His tone was casual, but I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to his words.

I glanced back at the woman, but she was already deep in conversation with the concierge again. Part of me wanted to know more about her. Who was she? What was she missing? And why did it feel like her frustration mirrored something deep inside me?

Clipboard Guy kept moving, though, and I forced myself to follow. He led me through the lobby, past other souls milling about—some of them sitting in plush chairs, sipping what looked suspiciously like lattes. We turned down a corridor, and the walls shifted, morphing into something more personal, like we were walking through a hotel suite.

"This will be your private area," he said, gesturing to a door with my name on it in fancy gold script. *Of course*. "Think of it as your home for the next nine months. You'll have all the comforts of your past life here, but with one significant difference."

I raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"

He swung open the door, revealing a spacious room that looked disturbingly like a luxury suite from some five-star resort. A massive bed, a minibar, and even a balcony with a view of... nothing, really, just more of that golden-white light.

"You get a front-row seat to all of your past lives," Clipboard Guy said with a flourish. "Every day, you'll watch a regression of one life. You'll see exactly where things went wrong, analyze your decisions, and figure out why you keep ending up back here."

I stared at him. "So, I'm basically watching reruns of my own life?"

"Precisely! Think of it like binge-watching, but with *personal growth* at the end. It's very cathartic."

"Yeah, sure, if catharsis involves cringing at my own terrible decisions for nine months straight."

Clipboard Guy laughed, like I was hilarious. "Don't worry! You'll get plenty of time to reflect. We'll also have group sessions, some activities, and, of course, daily orientation."

I blinked. "Orientation?"

"Oh yes! Let me show you where it is!" He practically skipped out of the room, and I followed him down another corridor that led to a large auditorium. Inside, it looked exactly like a high school assembly room—rows of uncomfortable-looking chairs and a stage up front with a big screen for presentations.

Clipboard Guy beamed. "This is where your journey to self-reprogramming begins! You'll meet the others, learn about the rules, and start the process. It's going to be a transformative experience, Tori!"

I nodded, feeling a knot of anxiety twist in my stomach. Nine months of watching my failures, analyzing my regrets, and somehow, *somehow* trying to figure out how not to waste my life again.

Fantastic.

Clipboard Guy clapped his hands, clearly excited. "Well, you've got some time before orientation starts, so settle in! And remember, Tori—this is all about *growth.*"

"Right," I muttered. "Growth."

As I looked back down the hallway, my thoughts drifted to the woman at the concierge desk. If people could choose to come here, then what was she searching for? What was missing for her?

And what was I supposed to find in all this?

"See you at orientation!" Clipboard Guy chirped, before disappearing into the white void, leaving me alone with my thoughts—and way too many questions.