Where time doesn’t exist:
In the space between worlds, the light is more than illumination—it’s memory, truth, and love, woven into something that feels alive. A soul doesn’t move into the light because it’s told to. It moves when it’s ready. When fear has loosened its grip, when regret has softened, and the weight of unfinished stories has been gently laid down.
Some arrive confused, still clinging to the echoes of their earthly lives. Gentle guides meet them with patience, never urging, only inviting. Together, they wander through gardens of memory, where each blossom unfurls a moment—laughter shared, tears shed, choices made, and paths taken. Souls revisit their lives—not to be judged, but to understand. To see how every act of kindness ripples outward like light on water, and how every wound left behind can be softened, even healed, through compassion. It isn’t a reckoning—it’s a remembering.
Moving into the light isn’t about perfection. It’s about wholeness. When a soul remembers who it truly is—beyond name, beyond body, beyond mistake—it begins to glow. Not with fire, but with recognition. The light calls, not as a destination, but as a reunion with the source of all things.
Some souls move quickly. Children often do, their hearts still open and unburdened. Others take longer, walking slowly, sitting beneath trees of reflection, waiting until they feel ready. There’s no shame in waiting. Time doesn’t exist here. Only readiness.
When a soul steps into the light, it isn’t goodbye. It’s more like becoming part of a song that has always been playing—one they had forgotten they belonged to. They don’t vanish. They expand. They become part of the love that holds the universe together.
A woman who carries guilt for decades forgives herself, and the light embraces her like a long-lost friend. A boy who dies too young runs laughing into the glow, his joy scattering across the sky like stars.
And when our time comes, we too will walk into that light—not with fear, but with wonder.
