God's Gone AWOL

Epilogue: Who Giveth Life

Through the endless swell of darkness, the first thing Atticus registered was the light scent of cinnamon. Like some tether to an unknown world, it hung in the empty void. The heated, powerful, yet sweet aroma was both familiar and foreign at the same time. But it was undoubtedly real, hovering somewhere within the nothingness.

Then, after the scent of cinnamon, he realized that there was something pressing down on him. It was both heavy, and warm at the same time. A solid weight on his chest.

—He still had a chest?

What was going on?

Where was he?

Was he... anywhere?

It was then that he realized that not only was there a warmth on his chest, but also on his face, his arms and his legs. As if every single cell in his body was gradually waking up, a layer of heat gradually spread throughout his being, stirred up by the smell of cinnamon.

What was this feeling?

Was this what death was supposed to be? Was this the afterlife? Just a weight on his chest and a warmth on his skin? Suspended in darkness with nothing but the memory of her scent? It wasn't so bad. The silence, the stillness, and the peace... he could happily spend an eternity like this.

Was this how she had felt for all of those years?

It really wasn't so bad...

However, as soon as he had eased his mind with this newfound reality, a clattering sound shattered the silence. It was distant at first, and it wasn't particularly loud either. But after the first ruckus, a second shortly followed. Atticus caught the recognizable sound of footsteps, and metal clinking together.

Now he was confused again.

After a moment, Atticus tried to open his eyes. But the moment he did so, he was blinded by a bright, golden light. Having spent so long floating bodiless in the empty darkness, it felt as though the glory of Heaven itself had beamed onto him and he had to blink several times before he could make out any details in the existence beyond himself.

Above him was a wooden ceiling, supported by wide beams and solid, stone walls. Once he had allowed his eyes to focus, he was able to make out the rest of his surroundings. He was laying on a large, squishy couch. Beside him, a low table had been decorated by a dozen different types of paper and assorted objects. That blinding golden light and warmth on his skin turned out to be the sun, beaming in through a glass window onto Atticus' face.

And the heavy weight on his chest wasn't anything out of the ordinary. It was just a very fluffy and familiar grey and white cat, balled up on top of Atticus as she enjoyed the warm morning sunbeam.

He was... in Micaiah's house?

Yes. That's precisely where he was. The walls coated with paper, the clutter everywhere, the tangled mess of flowers sprouting up outside the window, the familiar feline... this was definitely Micaiah's house. There was no doubt about it.

But if Atticus was dead, why was he here of all places? What was the significance? If this was some sort of afterlife scenario designed for his consciousness, shouldn't he be somewhere else? Shouldn't he be at his house in Jericho? Or the empty halls of Heaven? Even Purgatory —the location of his death— would make sense. Why would his mind choose to recreate Micaiah's house? What was the significance?

Everyone knew that souls entered Purgatory when their bodies died. Nobody could confirm what the consciousness actually experienced afterwards, because nobody had ever come back to life before. Well, except Bentley, but she had forgotten everything and couldn't bear an account. So Atticus had no idea what was going on.