I wrote a story about dying. Not the event — the process . A soul walking through seven rooms of its own making, each one an optical illusion I painted by hand. "The Letting Go" is just the first door. The rest are regrets, unfinished dreams, and a cathedral where time folds in on itself. The murals came first. The story came after. 908 words. Metaphysical flash fiction. The thesis: death isn't an end. It's something we actively, creatively, cyclically do . What illusion are you living inside?
