The mysterious man receded, replaced by an ever-evolving swirl of misty memories. Images of Tovah’s radiant smile, her father's pleading eyes, the mournful day they buried Tovah's mother, and Asher—his face dominated her memories.

  As the fog thickened, it veiled the man once more. Panicking, Ruth lunged into the billowing mist. It enveloped her, then propelled her with force akin to a push, yet devoid of pain. Even so, she screamed out, terror filling her. She felt as if she were being catapulted upward, only to crash down, finding herself lying flat, staring into the overcast expanse above.

  Dizziness overwhelmed her, prompting her to shut her eyes.

  “Ruth,” Asher’s familiar voice whispered, a mere echo from the past. “Shouldn’t we head home? Looks like rain. I know how you love stormy days, but I’m not in the mood to get drenched. And we need to pick Tovah up.”

  His voice stirred a memory, but Ruth's response seemed lost, a mere whisper in the wind.

  Unfazed, Asher carried on, “If you'd like, I can go get her. That way you can stay a bit longer in the park. It wouldn’t be right to let her stand in the rain.”

  That memory surfaced. Ruth recalled relenting, but her hesitance had led to them all getting drenched. Tovah's drenched school uniform had clung to her, making her resemble a forlorn puppy.

  And Asher—always the compassionate soul—had draped his jacket over Tovah, cradling her as they navigated the waterlogged streets.

  Ruth's lips turned upward, the memory warming her.

  Asher's voice, tinged with playful exasperation, emerged again. “So, you're joining me?” Followed by his heartwarming chuckle. “Alright, come on then.”

  Drops caressed Ruth's face.

  “It’s time to leave.”

  The phrase warped, echoed.

  It's time to leave.

  It wasn’t uttered aloud. It was a thought. And it wasn’t rain. These were her own tears.

  Reality fragmented once more, this time shattering like fragile glass. Ruth's knees buckled beneath her as she crumbled to the ground, engulfing her face in her hands. A primitive whimper escaped her lips, as she tried, in vain, to deny the undeniable.

  But once epiphanies dawned, they were irreversible. And Ruth faced a chilling revelation.

  She'd died when she drove off that bridge.

  And this was Sheol.

  9

  Animal Healing

  She didn’t know how long she laid there, staring up at the nothing above. The vast expanse reminded her of the ancient Jewish concept of Sheol, the shadowy place of the dead where souls awaited their fate. Ruth did know that the tears stopped at some point. And when they stopped, it felt like something inside of her had been touched by a divine presence. Maybe not knit back together exactly, but perhaps soothed, much like the comforting rituals of her faith.

  With animals, Quick-Stop could help clot a wound quickly, and it felt almost like someone had applied that to Ruth’s fragmented soul.

  I just want to go home, she thought. But instead, there was a great lurch, as though the very fabric of this realm responded to her desires. Ruth sat up, startled, and found herself face-to-face with the spitting image of the home that she and Asher had purchased together, planning to move in after their wedding.

  It bore resemblance to the modern two-floor building, only now it was more ancient. The walls, reminiscent of Old Jerusalem, were of stone. The second floor, reminiscent of a traditional sukkah, allowed for a rooftop garden. But this garden was more hellish than heavenly; Venus fly traps, prickly vines, and the alluring but deadly nightshade berries.

  It was the only vibrant hue in this monochromatic realm.

  With her Jewish upbringing, Ruth recognized elements of Sheol and perhaps even Gehinnom, the place of purification. But she wasn’t ready to label this as Hell.

  As she approached the house, the entrance beckoned her. No need for a mezuzah kiss or a knock, the door simply opened, revealing the hooded man within.

  “You!” she exclaimed, her heart racing with memories of old Yiddish tales of spirits and dybbuks. Ruth paused, half-expecting the house to dissolve like a mirage in the Negev desert. But it remained, a testament to a semblance of permanence in this ephemeral realm.

  “Shalom,” the figure greeted, revealing his face as he pushed back the hood. “Welcome, Ruth Abadi.”

  “Ruth Levi,” she corrected him. “Who are you?”

  “I am Jeremiah,” said the man, his name echoing the ancient prophets of her faith. “Consider me your spirit guide in this realm, akin to the Malach HaMavet, the Angel of Death. But I am here to guide, not to harm.”

  “My reaper?” The term jolted her, reminding her of the foreboding tales her bubbe would recount from the shtetl; stories laced with omens and otherworldly beings. Her defensive posture gave way to a more contemplative stance, arms folded protectively over her chest.

  The house's interior mirrored the one she and Asher had so eagerly planned for, albeit with a more somber and subdued palette. Rich maroons and regal purples took the place of the more cheerful hues they had chosen. A fireplace roared to life, its flames casting dancing shadows, yet oddly devoid of smoke, much like the eternal flame, the ner tamid, hanging in every synagogue.

  “I’m Ruth Levi,” she reaffirmed, clinging to the identity she had recently embraced. "I'm married." Memories of her wedding day flooded her. That day, they had been tied together by love, and destiny, and in death, their souls remained intertwined.

  She took a deep, grounding breath. “Is Asher here?”

  Jeremiah, with his prophet-like name, regarded her silently for a moment. “There is no one here but us.”

  Ruth's heart ached. “He's in Shamayim, isn’t he? And I...I’m in Sheol, aren't I? This is where I've ended up because of my actions. I remember what our rabbi taught about the afterlife, about Sheol and its shadows, about Shamayim and its eternal peace.”

  While Judaism did not have a conventional concept of Hell, Ruth couldn't help but feel she was in her own personal Gehinnom, a realm of retribution and purification. If Asher's soul had ascended to a higher plane, leaving her behind, it was a torment unlike any other.

  Jeremiah's gaze remained inscrutable. "Your perception is influenced by your beliefs and emotions," he intoned. "In this in-between, the surroundings manifest based on the state of your soul and your deepest convictions."

  Ruth's gaze flitted to the eerily comforting fireplace. "So, this house, it's a reflection of my desires?"

  He nodded. "Your soul yearned for something familiar, a semblance of home."

  She remembered the landscapes she had witnessed before arriving here. “And everything I experienced before...?”

  “A soul's journey to understanding is fraught with confusion and revelations. Your mind attempted to process the liminal space you transitioned through.”

  Guided by his gentle grasp, Ruth found herself moving deeper into the house, the surreal ambiance enveloping her. As they reached the living room, she noticed the warmth missing from the fire. It was ambient, neutral. Jeremiah gestured to the couch, its design uncannily familiar to the one she and Asher had chosen for their home.

  The cushions on the couch were not the pristine white she had remembered, but a rich, velvety crimson that contrasted starkly with the dark leather. Ruth picked up a plush pillow, feeling the soft, luxurious fabric beneath her fingertips as she clutched it to her chest, seeking solace in its familiar form. "If I'm in Hell, does that mean I'll never see Asher again?"

  Jeremiah's gaze was steady, unyielding. "Asher is not present here," he replied, the weight of his words lingering in the air.

  Ruth's eyes, misty and shadowed with pain, searched his for answers. "But that suggests he's in Heaven, doesn't it?"

  "In this realm, each soul resides in its own sanctuary, shaped by memories and emotions," Jeremiah began. "Upon death, souls are granted a period of isolation, allowing them to find their own equilibrium without external influences."

  Ruth's posture stiffened, determination shining in her eyes. "That doesn't answer my question," she pressed, the faint ember of hope reigniting within her.

  Deep inside, Ruth held an unshakable belief in Asher's inherent goodness. His kindness, his generosity, his pure heart--they were all undeniable. And while she was painfully aware of the implications of her own demise, she clung to the hope of a possible reunion.

  Jeremiah's voice cut through her reverie. "There's a brighter aura about you."

  She blinked, disoriented. "What?"

  He stood there, emanating a calm strength, hand extended toward her. "You appear more at peace. Is it comforting to think that Asher's essence still lingers, even if you're not united?"

  "It does," Ruth whispered, placing her trembling hand in his. His grip was reassuring, warm, like an anchor in a tempestuous sea. Perhaps, in his own way, he was trying to console her.

  Jeremiah's hum was contemplative, his face an enigma. After a few moments of silence, he cleared his throat gently. "This dwelling... it holds significance to you."

  Ruth nodded, a bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. "It's the home Asher and I were moving into." Her voice wavered, the nascent joy she had felt vanishing just as quickly as it had come.

  Watching her, Jeremiah's expression softened, revealing a hint of empathy, yet he remained silent.

  Ruth's words flowed like a river, each sentence drawing her deeper into the mire of her grief. “I'd imagined we'd settle here right after the vows were exchanged. But Asher—” The weight of her emotions choked her voice. Tears, shimmering like dewdrops, trailed down her cheeks. “I was blindsided. I had no idea he was unwell.”

  “Was he, though?”

  “The medical team mentioned cancer. Or at least, that he was on the brink of it. But reflecting on it now, it doesn’t quite make sense. I'm not sure,” Ruth conceded, her voice quivering. “I couldn’t bear to remain there and hear more. It was too much.”

  “You often leap before you look,” Jeremiah remarked gently.

  A watery chuckle escaped Ruth’s lips. “Abba used to caution me about that very trait. It used to irk him. But it wasn't that I wasn’t attentive. It was just... I had my own convictions.”

  Much like her decision about the bird tattoo.

  Abba, in his traditional ways and strong faith, revered the body as sacrosanct, implying that neither piercings nor tattoos should mar its purity. Yet, Ruth, with her rebellious streak and thirst for autonomy, made a beeline to a tattoo studio the moment she turned sixteen, bypassing the need for parental approval.

  Pierced ears.

  An intricate avian tattoo.

  “The physician's words... I couldn't handle them.” Her voice was laced with vulnerability.

  Jeremiah took a measured step, his movement so graceful it felt choreographed. His hand, cool and reassuring, cradled the nape of Ruth's neck, exerting the gentlest pressure. That subtle gesture was all she needed to lean into him, seeking refuge against the rich fabric of his obsidian robe.

  There was an aroma about him. Not the acrid burn of smoke, but something gentle, evoking nostalgia.

  Could it be the sweetness of milk and honey, or perhaps the scent of her favorite bloom?

  The comforting fragrance, combined with the overwhelming reality of her circumstances—her death, her self-inflicted damnation, and the widening chasm separating her from Asher—engulfed her entirely.

  Ruth's dam of restraint broke, and she was consumed by a torrent of heart-wrenching sobs.

  Throughout, Jeremiah remained a pillar of solace, cradling Ruth as she navigated the storm of her grief.

  10

  Midnight Flicker

  Tovah found herself anchored to the floor of her room, lighter in hand, thumb clicking it on and off. The flame sparked to life with a satisfying heat, before extinguishing into a cool nothingness. The digital clock on her nightstand taunted her with its almost-midnight glow. Sleep had become an elusive companion, especially since Ruth passed away.

  The hauntings were not confined to her waking hours.

  Her dreams replayed the sequence—the bathroom, the wedding, the indescribable form she’d glimpsed right before Asher Levi drew his final breath. And oh, the emptiness that gnawed at her when she was told Ruth was no longer of this world.

  She sat nestled in that cozy corner between her bed and the wall, too overwhelmed to dissect the maelstrom of emotions surging through her. Easier to get lost in the hypnotic click of the lighter, to let it lure her away from her tangled thoughts.

  Her father—Abba—would have disapproved heartily of her even possessing a lighter. In his worldview, these objects were tools, not toys; designed solely for igniting the stove or blessing the Sabbath candles. To own a lighter was a slippery slope, he warned, one that led down a dangerous path of vice. Like smoking.

  But Asher Levi smoked, and according to Ruth, he was nothing short of perfection.

  Was it really such a cardinal sin?

  Her lips puckered into a slight frown. Tovah felt emptied of tears; she'd spent them all in these past grief-soaked days. What was left was an expansive abyss of misery, a place where sorrow thrived and light ceased to exist.

  What if her lie about Asher smoking had set off a chain of events? What if that last cigarette was the catalyst for his suffering, the trigger that frightened him to death? She wished she could voice her tormenting thoughts, but that would be admitting to covering for Asher. And divulging secrets, even posthumously, felt like a betrayal.

  With a frustrated huff, Tovah hurled the lighter away. It collided with the wall, recoiled, and skittered under the bed. "This is all so messed up!" she exclaimed to her empty room.

  Downstairs, Abba was absorbed in the solemn tradition of sitting sheva, a week-long mourning period. Tovah knew that if she were even a smidgen older, she would be expected to join him.

  Instant regret washed over her the moment the lighter was out of sight. Ruth used to have these fits of impulsivity—so said Abba and the parade of visitors that ebbed and flowed through their lives.

  A man she'd never met once whispered, his words tinged with sad resignation, "Her temper was bound to catch up with her someday. Have you heard from her mother?"

  To which Abba offered nothing but a silent shake of his head, devoid of any attempt to vindicate Ruth.

  It had stirred something fierce in Tovah. A fury, yes, but also a stark reminder—she was expected to be the serene one, the obedient daughter.

  Throwing lighters did not fit that mold, particularly not when those lighters were lingering mementos from the departed.

  She let out a low, mournful sound before easing herself onto all fours and then, lowering her upper body beneath the bed, her legs and derriere jutting out awkwardly as she reached to retrieve what she'd recklessly discarded.

  The room swathed itself in darkness, a cloak of impenetrable black that seemed to grow even denser beneath the bed. Tovah's hand fumbled through the void, searching for the lighter. Finally, her fingers curled around its solid plastic exterior, an island of tangibility in an ocean of uncertainty. As she began to extricate herself from her confined hiding spot, something held her back.

  It wasn't physical, not really. It was as if her spine had frozen, an icy ripple coursing through her. A whisper of intuition told her she was being watched, scrutinized by something far from benign. With an audible squeal, she sank lower, pressing her belly against the underside of the bed.

  A thirteen-year-old was far too large for this sanctuary, but then again, when had the rules of logic ever applied to fear?

  She swallowed audibly, her throat constricting with a tension she couldn’t shake.

  You're safe, she tried to reassure herself. Your door's locked, your windows are secure. You're alone in this room.

  Still, the foreboding clung to her, almost palpable in its intensity. In her mind's eye, she envisioned this malevolent entity scanning the room, incensed by her sudden disappearance from its view.

  Tovah held her breath, one hand stifling her mouth, the other clutching the lighter as if it were a talisman. Thoughts of Ruth, always so grounded, mingled with memories of Asher, unfailingly compassionate. If they were her guardian angels at this moment, nothing malevolent could touch her.

  Right?

  She clung to this belief with the fervor of a desperate prayer. Ruth had vowed to always look out for her, in this world or the next. Slowly, the chilling sensation seemed to recede. Even so, Tovah remained still, wary of some cruel ruse. In the end, she remained so motionless that sleep claimed her, not relinquishing its hold until morning light filtered through the windows.

  Ahmed found her there, his voice a gentle melancholy as he said, "Oh, little one." He reached beneath the bed, pulling her into a world washed in the dawn's glow. If something had yearned for her the night before, it could've easily claimed her. But not Ahmed. Safely ensconced in his arms, she found herself unleashing a torrent of tears she hadn't known she'd had left.

  "There you are," he hummed softly. "It's okay. I miss her too."

  Tovah stammered, "Something was here last night, Abba."

  His eyes locked onto hers, piercing in their intensity. "What do you mean?"

  She averted her gaze, discomforted by the directness of eye contact. "I felt like I was being watched."

  Ahmed's voice was a soothing balm. "Little one, nothing was in here. And if anything had been watching you, it would have been your sister's spirit, bidding you one last farewell."

  But Tovah knew, deep within her, that the presence from the night before was no benevolent spirit--and certainly not Ruth. Whatever had watched her had been darker, far darker than anything her beloved sister could ever embody.

  11

  Grounded in Gehinnom