She awoke in a place that felt like a memory:
Abby Lane was 8 years old and full of questions. She had a sketchbook filled with drawings of stars and imaginary creatures, and a habit of talking to trees as if they were old friends. Her favorite place was the library, where she’d sit cross-legged in the astronomy section, dreaming of galaxies far beyond her small town. On a rainy Thursday, Abby was biking home with a backpack full of books and a heart full of wonder. She was humming a tune she’d made up herself when the world tilted. A car skidded. A horn blared. Then—nothing.
She opened her eyes to a world unlike any she’d ever imagined. It wasn’t clouds and harps. It was light—everywhere, but not blinding. The air shimmered with color that had no name. She stood barefoot on what felt like warm moss, though it glowed faintly beneath her feet. A figure approached—not an angel with wings, but a woman with silver eyes and hair like woven moonlight. She wore robes that shifted like water and spoke without moving her lips. “Welcome, Abby,” she said. “You are in the In-Between.”
Abby looked around. “Is this heaven?” she asked. The woman smiled. “It’s part of it. Heaven is not a place—it’s a state of knowing, of being. You’re here because your soul is curious.” Abby saw others—children playing with glowing orbs, elders walking through gardens that bloomed with memories. There were no clocks, no pain, no fear. Only peace. She learned that every soul carried a light, and that light grew brighter with love, kindness, and understanding. She saw her grandfather, who had passed years ago, tending to a tree that bore fruit made of laughter. He hugged her, and she felt every hug he’d ever given her, all at once.
But the silver-eyed woman, whose name was Lysara, told Abby something unexpected. “You are not meant to stay.” Abby was given a choice. She could remain in the In-Between, where time did not exist and love was the language of all things. Or she could return—to pain, to confusion, to growing up. “But why would I go back?” Abby asked. Lysara knelt beside her. “Because you carry something rare. A memory of this place. And the world needs reminders.”
Abby hesitated. She looked at the glowing gardens, the souls dancing in light, the stars that whispered secrets. Then she thought of her mother’s laugh, her dog’s muddy paws, the way the wind felt on her face. “I want to go back,” she said.
Abby woke up in a hospital bed, surrounded by machines and the scent of antiseptic. Her mother was asleep in a chair, clutching Abby’s hand like it was the last thread holding her to the world.
Doctors called it a miracle. Her heart had stopped for three minutes. No brain damage. No explanation.
But Abby was different.
She spoke of things she shouldn’t know—her grandfather’s secret garden, her neighbor’s lost cat, the dreams her mother had as a child. She drew pictures of the silver-eyed woman and wrote poems about “the place between the stars.”
She wasn’t afraid anymore. Not of death, not of loneliness, not even of the dark.
Slowly she began to change. She spoke gently, with wisdom beyond her years. She painted scenes of glowing gardens and silver-eyed guides. She comforted grieving neighbors with words that felt like truth. She told her best friend, Leo, “Heaven isn’t just up there. It’s in kindness. It’s in remembering.”
As Abby grew older, she became a quiet legend in her town. People said she had “the touch”—that she could calm storms in people’s hearts. She never claimed to be special. She just listened more deeply than most. She started a journal called *The In-Between*, filled with sketches and stories of what she saw. She never tried to prove it. She just shared.
And when she was asked what heaven was like, she’d say, “It’s like remembering who you really are. It’s like being loved without needing to earn it. And it’s waiting for all of us—not as a reward, but as a reunion.”
