My Angel Is Out of Their Mind

The alarm shattered the morning silence like an annoying fly that had found the worst possible ear to buzz into. I smacked it,, but instead of shutting up, it screeched even louder.

— Oh, shut up… — I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut. But it was too late. Sleep had already evaporated, leaving behind the usual sense of exhaustion.

I got up, feeling like someone had been shaking me all night. My dreams were restless, yet the moment I tried to recall them, my mind hit a foggy wall.

The coffee maker gurgled, filling the apartment with the rich aroma of salvation. I yawned, stretched, and lazily glanced around the kitchen. Everything was in its usual place: stacks of books, a mountain of dirty dishes, and two cups of tea that had long since transitioned into biological weapons of mass destruction.

"Another day. Another routine. Why do I even bother waking up?"

I grabbed my mug, took a sip. Burned my tongue. Great. At least something in this life remained consistent.

A thought flickered through my mind and disappeared just as quickly. There was no one to complain to, and whining to myself was pointless.

I slung my bag over my shoulder and left.

The bus was overcrowded, as always. The people around me looked just as exhausted, and I suddenly realized I couldn't recall a single one of their faces. As if they were all just blurry smudges.

At the office, everything went on as usual: emails, calls, reports, urgent tasks that would be completely irrelevant by tomorrow.

— Can you send me the calculations for the project? — someone called out to me.— Yeah, sure, — I replied without even looking. What did it matter?

But the feeling of unease didn't go away. Something was off. There was this strange tension in the air, one I couldn't quite explain.

"Is this it? Is this how it will always be?"

That evening, on my way home, I saw her.

A girl, no older than ten, stood at the street corner as if she were waiting for me. The streetlamp cast a glow on her thin face, her huge eyes staring straight into my soul.

— You don't have much time, — she said softly.

I stopped.

— What?

But she was already gone, swallowed by the crowd.

My heart skipped a beat.

"What the hell…?"

I hurried home, trying to push the encounter out of my mind, but that night, sleep never came. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard a faint whisper in the darkness:

— Do you hear it?… Do you hear…

The clock read midnight when I finally gave in. A heavy, sticky fatigue crashed over me, and I collapsed onto my bed.

And that was when everything changed.

I felt myself falling into nothingness.

Panic flared in my chest, but my body wouldn't move. I tried to scream, but my voice was trapped in my throat.

Then—a flash.

I stood in a vast stone hall. Towering arches vanished into the darkness above, torches flickered along the walls, their unsteady light illuminating intricate patterns on the floor. They formed a symbol that seemed to pulse with living energy.

I had no memory of how I got here.

The darkness slowly receded, revealing more of the massive chamber. The stone beneath my feet was cold, the air thick with an ancient, vaguely familiar scent. The torches cast long, trembling shadows.

On an elevated platform, a girl lay motionless.

Her white hair cascaded in soft waves over the stone floor, and her eyes—deep crimson—glowed faintly as she stared at me, unblinking.

— Finally, — she said.

A shiver ran down my spine.

— Where… am I?

She sat up, her movements fluid, almost hypnotic.

— You have finally awakened, — she spoke in the tone of someone addressing a sleeping volcano. — You certainly took your time.

— Took my time for what?

She tilted her head slightly, observing me with unsettling patience.

— For realization.

— Realization of what?

She sighed, as if she had answered this question a thousand times before.

— You are dead.

I blinked.

— What?

— You are dead, — she repeated, her voice even and emotionless.

I wanted to laugh, but my throat was dry.

— No. That's a mistake. I was just… I was just at the office! I drank coffee this morning! I—

— That was not your life. That was an echo.

The air around us trembled. The walls, the floor, even the stone columns cracked like fragile glass.

— The last two days were nothing more than a reflection of how your soul perceived its life. Not memories, but impressions. A phantom. An illusion you were trapped in because you refused to accept the truth.

I stepped back.

— No… That's… that's nonsense! I am alive!

She watched me in silence, with neither mockery nor deceit—only expectation.

Something twisted inside me.

— If that's true… then… how did I die?

She approached me slowly.

— Do you really want to know?

I swallowed hard but nodded.

She extended her hand, and the space around us rippled like disturbed water.

Suddenly, the world changed.

Cold asphalt. Rain. The blurred glow of streetlights.

And my own body, lying in the middle of the road.

Blood pooled across the wet pavement.

A car with a shattered windshield.

Distant voices. Sirens.

I gasped and stumbled back—and I was back in the hall again.

I swayed on my feet, my heartbeat thundering in my ears.

She stood before me, completely calm, entirely unsurprised.

I licked my dry lips.

— That… that was…

My voice broke.

She tilted her head slightly, waiting for me to finish the thought.

I closed my eyes.

The images flashed behind my eyelids:

Headlights. A deafening impact. A hand gripping mine.

Rain.

Blood.

But…

Something was wrong.

A hole in my memory. A gap I couldn't explain.

— Is that all? — I asked, my voice hoarse.

She nodded.

— Yes.

I could sense no deception.

But…

Why did it feel like I was supposed to see something more?

I clenched my fists.

— So… I am dead.

She gave a small, knowing smile—like a doctor confirming a terminal diagnosis.

— You have been for two days.

The words struck like ice.

I turned away.

Two goddamn days.

I thought I had been living.

I thought life was moving forward as always.

But it was an illusion.

— What happens now?

She studied me for a moment.

— Now… you have a choice.

The symbols on the floor lit up, and the air around us vibrated like a string stretched to its limit.

— You can move on… like everyone else. Or you can choose a different path.

— What path?

Her voice was gentle.

— To find out who you can be… if you choose yourself.

I blinked.

— What?

She sighed, rolling her eyes like a teacher dealing with a particularly slow student.

— Oh, come on. I am revealing the mysteries of the universe here, and you look at me like I just tried to sell you insurance.

I still couldn't wrap my head around it.

— I just… don't understand, — I said slowly. — What do you mean by "choosing myself"?

She threw up her hands.

— Oh, what a charming log you are, — she smiled, but there was a spark of something… dangerous? Or was I imagining it? — Fine, I'll explain it simply. Imagine your life is a TV series. And this is the final episode. The ending already aired, the ratings sucked, and the audience is complaining in the comments that the main character is a boring idiot who never did anything with his fate.

I narrowed my eyes.

— Are you literally saying my life was boring?

She tilted her head sweetly.

— Oh, you said that yourself. I'm just giving you food for thought.

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

— Anyway, here's the deal, — she continued, taking on a slightly more serious tone. — Some rare souls get a chance… to rewrite their ending. And yours, miraculously, is one of them.

— Rewrite?

— Yep, — she shrugged. — But this time, you decide who you will be. No more "live your life however it turns out." You can gain power, become someone important, find out who you really are… Or you can refuse and go into reincarnation, like all the regular souls.

I opened my mouth but shut it immediately.

She spoke in such a casual tone, as if we were just discussing what to order for lunch, but I could feel that something far deeper was hidden behind her words.

I blinked, still not understanding.

— If this chance is so rare, why do I have it?

The angel looked at me for about five seconds, and then… she burst out laughing.

And not just a chuckle—a full-blown, uncontrollable fit of laughter. Like I had just told the best joke of the year.

— Oh, my God, are you serious? — She covered her mouth with her hand, but her shoulders were still shaking. — Hah… Sorry, sorry, but… "rare chance"! Do you even know how many times I've heard that?!

I frowned.

— So… it's not rare?

She let out a deep breath, trying to calm down, and flashed a mischievous smile.

— Oh, my dear, it's not just "not rare." It's the most common, mundane thing in the universe. People die every day. And you know what? Every single one of them has a choice. They just don't know it.

— W-what?..

She squinted at me, her grin widening as if she was enjoying watching my brain desperately try to process all this.

— Alright, alright, listen. I'll explain how fate works in this world, because you look like you're about to need a cup of tea and a comforting blanket.

She stepped closer and lightly tapped my forehead with her finger.

— Pay attention, rookie.

I scowled but stayed silent.

— In this world, it's pretty simple. Every person determines their own fate at birth. What talents they'll have, what trials they'll face, how their life will unfold—it's all their personal choice.

I frowned.

— But… I never chose anything.

— Exactly! That's the problem! — she threw up her hands. — The choice is given, but the soul only has 16 hours to make it.

I froze.

— You mean… as a newborn?

— Bingo! — she snapped her fingers.

I exhaled sharply.

— But… newborns can't consciously think!

— Absolutely correct. — She theatrically placed a hand on her chest. — And that's why 99.9% of souls don't make any choice, and their fate is determined randomly.

Something clicked in my head.

— Wait… That means my entire life…

She crossed her arms and tilted her head, looking at me with an unsettling mixture of amusement and pity.

— Yep. Default settings. Welcome to reality, buddy.

I slowly lowered my gaze, feeling a strange, unpleasant pressure inside.

— …So everything I went through…

— …was not your conscious choice. That's why you always felt like you were living someone else's life.

I clenched my fists.

— This… is complete bullshit.

She smirked.

— Oh, really? What did you think life was? A fair system?

I exhaled.

— That's harsh.

— Yep, but wait—it gets better. — She leaned in closer, her crimson eyes glinting in the dim light. — You see, 16 hours isn't the only way to choose your fate.

I raised an eyebrow.

— What?

— Yep. In fact, there are three ways to do it. Take notes, just in case.

She raised a finger.

— First—at birth. 16 hours. Almost no one passes.

She raised a second finger.

— Second—if you fall into a space-time distortion. Different distortions give different amounts of time for choice. But, well… that's rare.

She raised a third finger.

— And the third…

She fell silent, drawing out the moment dramatically, then grinned like a cat that just found a cornered mouse.

— Death.

I tensed.

— So… what's happening to me right now…

— Yep. You died, but your soul refused to die.

I shuddered.

— …What?

— You got stuck between life and nothingness because, deep down, you didn't want to leave just like that. It's rare. Usually, souls just… dissolve. They don't ask questions, they don't resist. Their consciousness fades away, and they move on to their next life without ever realizing they had a choice.

— So… most people don't even know what's happening to them?

— Exactly. Bam. Crash. The protagonist dies, and the soul just sighs, goes "Well, okay," and off it floats into its next life. Just like trash in the ocean.

— Charming.

I took a slow breath, trying to gather my thoughts.

— And now what?

She smiled and tilted her head, her snow-white hair sliding softly over her shoulders.

— Now… you decide who you want to be.

I swallowed, feeling a strange mix of fear, anger, and a sharp, almost painful hope.

— And if I agree… what happens next?

She leaned in closer, her gaze locking onto mine, and I felt something deep inside me tremble.

— Then, my dear dead friend… you start playing by your own rules.

And her smile—soft, almost kind—somehow felt more dangerous than death itself.