Humans will die.
And death, when it comes, often happens in the blink of an eye. It happened so fast to me that I didn't even see the face of the person who pressed a cloth against my nose and mouth. Who killed me? I remember only one thing—their right sleeve snagged, and a button popped off during my frantic struggle.
A black button, round and rimmed with tiny rhinestones. A woman's button.
My name is Orion Darkleaf, and I am a dreamweaver among the dead. I dwell in the fourth-dimensional plane, crafting dreams for the living. You might call me a ghost, but I dislike the term. I am not some lingering wisp; I am simply no longer bound to the carbon-based existence of the living. I retain all my memories from life. That is why I can tell you this: humans do not truly die. At least, the soul—the essence—lives on.
For those confined to the three-dimensional world, the concept of higher dimensions may feel impossible to grasp. Think of an ant, crawling along a straight line, suddenly plucked upward by a pair of tweezers. It wouldn't comprehend the vastness of the three-dimensional space it has been pulled into. Similarly, imagine you rushing to catch your bus one morning, only to be snatched up by a colossal hand from the fourth dimension and set down in the mayor's office in New York City. The mayor glances up from his newspaper, startled, and you stare back, confused, sweat dripping down your face. How did you get here? Oh, and if one day you find an object you've lost for years suddenly reappearing in plain sight, there's a good chance it's just a soul from the fourth dimension playing a little joke on you.
I live in Nightfall, a ramshackle community on the northern edge of the City of the Dead. The place is chaotic and crowded, with souls from all walks of life—or rather, death—crammed together. Rent here is non-existent, but resources still require effort to obtain. You see, even in this dimension, the dream of a utopian existence remains elusive. Here, we use "Passage Tickets" instead of currency. They're a bit like Karl Marx's idea of communism—no money, no personal wealth; everything belongs to the collective. You use these tickets to trade for food, water, or the opportunity to visit your loved ones in the living world through their dreams. However, as long as souls retain desires, morality, and ambition, true communism remains unattainable—even in death.
Time, however, doesn't exist here. If you wish to stay in this dimension forever, it's entirely possible. But most souls have a different goal: reincarnation. For that, they need exactly 749 Passage Tickets. Why 749? The number comes from our enigmatic ruler, Warren Martin, a deeply superstitious old soul. He believes that a soul lingers in the mortal realm for seven days after death and then spends up to 49 days wandering before transitioning to the fourth dimension. Whether that's true or not, I've never experienced it myself, nor do I care to find out.
My closest friend here is Michael. He arrived in Nightfall after swallowing 60 sleeping pills in the living world. Back then, he was a 75-year-old man, but here, age and weight mean nothing. Souls are liberated from their earthly constraints. Michael, however, is as forgetful as ever. The last time we drank together, he couldn't even remember losing two Passage Tickets to me in a bet. Tickets are everything here. They determine whether you can continue to exist, visit loved ones in dreams, or gather enough to be reborn.
To collect my own 749 tickets, I took a job as a dreamweaver. My task is simple: help other souls connect with their loved ones in the living world through dreams. In return, I earn a few tickets for my efforts. Thanks to my frugality and the occasional windfall—like Michael's forgetfulness—I've amassed 746 tickets. Close, but not quite there. I don't have anyone I long to visit in the living world, which makes me efficient, if a little pitiable.
That was when I saw her.
Here, in the fourth dimension, everything is transparent. I could see through her chest, straight to her heart—or rather, the three gaping holes where her heart should have been. Three bullet wounds had torn through it. She must have died in a shooting, the killer making sure she didn't stand a chance.
She wore a black round-neck suit over a tan turtleneck sweater. Her silver hair was cut short, her posture was upright, and the lines on her neck hinted at her age. She exuded the aura of a sharp, confident professional—a woman who had seen the world and wouldn't be intimidated by it. But none of that mattered.
What mattered was the button on her jacket.
It was the same as the one I saw on the hand that silenced me in my final moments. Black, round, and rimmed with rhinestones.
It was time to uncover the truth about my death.