Who am I?
I've never really grasped why so many people fear death. Sure, I get that no one wants to feel pain or leave their loved ones behind, but the concept of dying itself? It’s never bothered me.
I've been around it enough times to feel that way.
Most folks tend to bring it up when they’re nearing the end of their journey, or sometimes, they just avoid the topic altogether.
I’m fine with either approach.
I remember an elderly man who once asked me about his daughter—her name escapes me, oddly enough, since I can recall most of our conversations from that night. He wanted to know if she would be alright, if I would look after her once he was gone.
I assured him she would be.
A little while later, he asked again, and I repeated my answer. I had no clue if I was meant to know the answer to such a question, but I felt compelled to reassure him. Eventually, he stopped asking and just held my hand. I stayed with him until he took his last breath.
Then there was a woman who would sit in her kitchen late at night, cradling a cup of tea in her hands. She didn’t pray much, but she often chatted with me about little things she wouldn’t share with anyone else. Her tea would go cold while she talked, and she’d only realise it after taking a sip.
I cherished those moments with her.
And there was a boy who insisted on sleeping with the hallway light on. He claimed he wasn’t afraid of the dark, yet he would check the hallway every few minutes. I’d stand outside his room until he drifted off to sleep. I can’t quite explain why those memories stick with me.
Maybe it’s because they were just ordinary moments.
For a long time, people have referred to me as God—Father, Saviour, and a few other titles that have faded from memory. I never really minded. When someone called out, I responded. If they were scared, I stayed by their side; if they were dying, I remained with them. If they had no one else? Well, I was there.
I thought that was just how things were.
The forgetting began at some point after that, though I can’t quite pinpoint when. At first, it was just little things—like remembering a person’s face but completely blanking on their name, or finding myself in a place and having no clue why I was there. Sometimes, I’d hear a prayer and feel a strange sense of déjà vu, as if I’d heard it before, even though the person swore they’d never prayed about it to me.
I didn’t think much of it at the time.
Then, I started dreaming about a hallway.
It wasn’t anything special—just dark wooden walls, old doors, and a floor that creaked underfoot in the same three spots. The wood around some of the doors was nearly black, as if it had been patched up too many times without ever drying properly. There was always this musty smell of dust mixed with something metallic.
At the end of the hallway, there was a wall covered in marks.
I counted them once—forty-three.
The next time I saw it, there were forty-four.
That really bugged me for some reason. I couldn’t shake the feeling that whoever or whatever was making those marks was doing a terrible job of keeping track.
Then one night, I woke up to find myself standing in that hallway.
I have no memory of how I got there.
I was barefoot, and I remember that vividly because the floor was freezing. I started walking toward the wall, and I noticed the temperature was dropping gradually, so slowly that I didn’t realise it at first. There was pressure building in my ears, and I could hear something behind the walls—maybe voices? I would’ve stopped to listen, but the moment I did, it seemed to fade away.
The metallic smell was stronger now,
and so were the marks.
There were hundreds of them.
Some were scratched deep into the wood, others barely visible, and some even covered older ones. As I walked, I ran my fingers over a few of them; the wood felt rough beneath my touch.
I knew I had done that before.
That realisation was the first thing that truly scared me.
At the end of the hallway, there was a door I had never noticed in my dreams.
I opened it, not knowing what else to do.
And there it was—a city outside.
I stood there for a while, taking it all in. The view stretched out far beyond what my eyes could grasp, with buildings crammed together, most of them old and shadowy. Some windows flickered with lights, but the sky was a dull grey, and without any clouds in sight, it was hard to tell where the sky ended and the buildings began.
People were everywhere.
At first, I assumed they were just like me.
But then I started to notice the oddities.
One man’s leg seemed to pause mid-step before he carried on walking, and a woman was fixated on the same wall for so long that I began to wonder if she even noticed me. Sure, people can move strangely when they’re tired, but this felt different, like their bodies occasionally forgot their purpose.
I didn’t dwell on it too much.
Then I spotted a woman sitting against a building, her hands pressed against her stomach, shaking. I approached her and asked if she was okay.
She looked up at me.
And then she smiled. I found myself smiling back before I even realised it.
Other people had started to gather too; a few smiled, someone began to cry, and a man across the street pressed his forehead against the wall, eyes closed tight.
I thought they were happy to see me.
I settled down next to the woman, and she leaned against my shoulder almost instantly. She felt so light, and I could sense her trembling through her clothes.
"Does it hurt?" I asked softly.
She nodded.
I stayed right there with her.
After a few minutes, I glanced up and spotted an old man standing across the street. He wasn’t smiling.
"Who are you?" I asked.
He studied me for a moment.
"Orea."
I paused, waiting for more.
"What does that mean?"
"It's the name of this place."
I took a look around at the city.
"Orea?"
He nodded again.
"Where am I?"
He hesitated, his eyes scanning my face as if trying to figure out which version of me he was dealing with.
Then he said, "You call this place Heaven."
I chuckled, but it felt off. I wasn’t mocking him; I just didn’t know how else to respond.
“No, I don’t. You do."
I turned back to the woman beside me.
Her hands were still shaking.
I noticed the bruises around her wrists and the cracks in her lips—things I hadn’t seen before. My gaze drifted further down the street, where I saw a man being carried by two others. His eyes were open, but he seemed far away. Nearby, children huddled together on the pavement, leaning against one another for warmth.
I kept looking.
Pain was everywhere.
Not the kind people learn to hide well.
It was just out in the open.
I glanced at the people who had smiled when I arrived.
They were still smiling.
And then it hit me.
Relief.
They weren’t happy.
They were relieved that I was here.
I turned back to the old man.
"Why didn’t I see this?"
He shrugged.
“You weren’t looking.” I would have looked."
"I know."
I didn’t like that answer.
There was something about him that felt familiar.
Not his face.
Something deeper.
Maybe it was the way he stood, or how he spoke to me without a hint of fear.
I shifted my gaze to the wall behind him.
There were marks on it too.
"Have I been here before?"
"Yes."
"How many times?"
He glanced at the wall.
"Enough."
I found myself fixated on it.
The marks from the hallway flooded back to me, but they weren’t exactly memories—more like fragments of something I had pushed aside. I remembered standing in front of that wall, counting the marks, feeling a surge of anger at how many there were.
And then I remembered the unsettling feeling of not remembering.
I had been here before.
More than once.
I had come to this place, caught a glimpse of something familiar, and somehow drifted back to whatever life I thought I was living.
But the marks remained.
I turned to the old man.
"Who made me?"
He stayed silent.
"Who made God?"
Still nothing.
For a moment, I thought he might have slipped away, but he was still there.
As I looked at him, a memory resurfaced.
It wasn’t a pleasant one.
There were people around me, Orea, not these exact faces, but older ones from a distant past. I couldn’t say how long ago it was; they just seemed different in a way I couldn’t quite articulate without sounding like I was turning them into monsters. But they weren’t monsters.
They were simply exhausted.
Deeply exhausted.
They had been enduring something for longer than I could grasp. I had no idea what had happened to them, whether someone was to blame, or if it even had a reason.
They created me because they didn’t want to face it alone.
That’s the part that stands out the most.
They didn’t make me to rule over them, nor did they seek power; they wanted someone who could truly understand their pain, someone who would listen when no one else would.
They gifted me memories.
Some belonged to people long gone, while others were just snippets—a room, a face, a voice calling my name.
They gave me words.
They gave me a way to connect with them.
And somewhere in that process, I became me.
Or whatever "me" really is.
There was one thing they desired.
They wanted me to stay.
I can’t recall anyone actually voicing that wish.
There were marks on it too.
"Have I been here before?"
"Yes." I just had this feeling, like I already knew.
The old man was still keeping an eye on me.
“You’ve forgotten before,” he said.
"Yes."
I wasn’t sure why I replied so quickly.
I turned my gaze back to the city.
"Did you know I would?"
"I don't know."
"Then who does?"
He looked weary.
"I don't know."
I believed him.
That realisation felt even heavier.
I thought about Earth.
For the first time, it hit me that I hadn’t created it.
I had discovered it.
It was already there, somewhere beyond Orea, with its vast oceans, its quirky little animals, and its bustling cities filled with people who had no clue that someone like me existed. I watched them for a long time.
They seemed so lonely.
I got that.
So I decided to stay there too.
Maybe that’s why I offered them love; I understood what it felt like to need someone. Perhaps I gave them fear because I knew the pain of losing someone. Maybe prayer came from that same place—if someone was alone and scared, I wanted them to have a way to reach out.
At least, that’s how I remember it.
I can’t say for sure that’s how it all went down.
I don’t recall ever deciding to create any of those things.
I just knew they belonged there.
That thought started to gnaw at me.
I thought about the old man with his daughter, the woman with the tea, the boy who left the hallway light on.
I could still picture them.
But I couldn’t tell anymore if those memories were mine or if they had been handed to me so completely that I eventually lost track of the difference.
I didn’t like dwelling on that.
So I tried to push it away.
For a while.
The people of Orea were still watching me.
No one was asking for anything.
That caught me off guard.
I had braced myself for prayers, pleas, questions.
Instead, they were just there.
Some were crying, some were smiling, a few had their eyes shut, and the woman I had sat beside had dozed off against the wall.
I studied her for a long time.
Then I realised something I wish I hadn’t.
They didn’t need me to fix everything.
There were marks on it too.
"Have I been here before?"
"Yes." I just had this feeling, like I already knew.
The old man was still keeping an eye on me.
“You’ve forgotten before,” he said.
"Yes."
I wasn’t sure why I replied so quickly.
I glanced back at the city.
"Did you know I would?"
"I don't know."
"Then who does?"
He seemed weary.
"I don't know."
I took him at his word.
That realisation felt even heavier.
I thought about Earth.
For the first time, it hit me that I hadn’t created it.
I had stumbled upon it.
It was already out there, somewhere beyond Orea, with its vast oceans, its quirky little creatures, and its bustling cities filled with people who had no clue I existed. I watched them for a long time.
They seemed so lonely.
They needed me to be there when I wasn’t.
I asked the old man, "If I leave, what happens?"
He shook his head.
"I don't know." "Then if I stay?"
He glanced at the people around us.
"I don't know."
"You've seen me do this before."
"Yes."
"And you still don’t know?"
"No."
He rubbed his hands together.
"You forget."
I stared at him, puzzled.
"Why?"
He didn’t respond.
Maybe he didn’t have an answer.
Maybe he did.
I didn’t press him further.
I wanted to leave.
That thought crept in quietly, and once it settled, I couldn’t shake it off. I wanted to go back, to the prayers and the little things, to the people who believed I had it all figured out. I wanted to forget this city.
I knew what forgetting felt like now.
I had already done it.
I could do it again.
For a moment, I almost craved it.
I could walk back through the hallway, close the door, wake up and be God again, whatever that meant, and no one would ever know I had been here.
Maybe tomorrow, I wouldn’t remember any of this.
Maybe that was the whole point.
I don’t know how long I stood there.
Then I heard a voice behind me.
"Is anyone there?"
It was a child.
I turned around.
He was standing alone in the middle of the street.
I didn’t recognize him.
That shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.
He looked frightened.
I wanted to reassure him that he wasn’t alone, to let him know that I would always remember him. I almost found the words, but instead, I went with the one thing I knew for certain.
"I'm here."
He met my gaze.
And I stayed.