"Uh, what's going on? Where am I?" My mind was a mess, thoughts scattered like fragments of a nightmare I couldn't piece together, and the strangest part was the utter calm in my mind.

"I didn't die? That's strange..." I tried to move my arms, my legs, but it was as if my body didn't exist. Nothing. No pain, no weight. Not even the air in my lungs.

My eyes—or whatever they were now—opened to an endless, infinite void, white and unyielding. Absolute silence. Nothing but me and the vast emptiness.

The last thing I remembered was the sound of tires screeching, someone screaming—or was it my own?—and the violent impact that erased everything. "Is this... the end?"

"I can't move!" The thought echoed in my mind like a silent scream, but it was futile. My body seemed to have vanished from reality. There was nothing holding me, no restraints, but nothing I could control either.

"Help." I tried to cry out, to beg, but my mouth didn't respond. In fact, it didn't even seem to be there. The emptiness around me was absolute, but the void within me was even more terrifying.

It felt like being trapped in a bubble of pure thought, with no voice, no touch, no form. "What's happening to me?"

At first, despair took over. It was an irrational panic, almost instinctive, like an animal caught in invisible chains trying to break free. The idea of being trapped in something so absolute, without form or meaning, was suffocating. I wanted to scream, to struggle, to move... to do anything that proved I still existed. But the emptiness offered no resistance. It was indifferent.

After what I think were minutes—or maybe hours?—something strange began to happen. The initial fear gave way to a forced calm, almost unnatural. It was as if my mind had given up fighting the impossible. It was like being adrift in an infinite ocean, without current, without direction, and eventually realizing that fighting the waves would be pointless.

And then the question arose. "If everything here is static... does time even exist in this place?"

The thought disturbed me, but it also intrigued me. Each second seemed to drag on, but I had no way of measuring its passage. Perhaps time, as I knew it, didn't make sense here. Perhaps there was no "here" at all. The absence of form, of walls, of ground, made even the idea of space seem absurd.

All that remained was the void. An absolute nothingness, yet somehow overwhelming. I couldn’t see it, touch it, or even comprehend it, but I felt its presence. It wasn’t just an absence of things; it was something active, oppressive, as if the void had a will of its own. And in this void, the only thing that truly existed was me — or at least what remained of me.

Acceptance came slowly, but inevitably. "If there's nothing to be done, what’s left but to accept?"

Still, acceptance didn’t bring peace. It brought questions. Where was I? Why was I here? What did this mean? And, above all, how long would I remain in this endless void?

"Forget it," I thought bitterly. "I’m the only one here, and there’s no one to answer me."

The conclusion, though logical, was as bitter as bile. Total solitude weighed heavier than any chain could. There was no echo, no warmth, no cold. It was just me and that relentless void.

Feeling my sanity slowly slipping away, I realized I needed to do something. Anything. Even if it wasn’t possible to change the situation, I could try to occupy my mind. Staying still, surrendered to that absolute emptiness, felt like an invitation to madness.

"Maybe recalling will help." That was the only idea I had left, as simple as it was desperate. "If nothing here can change, maybe remembering what I’ve lived will be my anchor."

I closed my eyes—or at least I felt as though I did, unsure if I still had eyes. I began to search the corners of my memory, like someone trying to find a lost item in a dark room. Fuzzy images began to emerge, like pieces of an old dream. Moments of joy, of sadness, of regret. People I loved, places that marked me, decisions that defined the course of my life.

At first, the thoughts were comforting, like holding on to something familiar in the midst of the vast unknown. But as the memories accumulated, a new feeling began to take hold of me. "How long can I do this before these memories start to fade too?"

Even so, there was no choice. Recalling the events of my life was the only thing that connected me to the idea that I was still—me. Without my past, what would remain? I would be just a consciousness drifting in the void, without identity, without purpose.

"Maybe, during this time..." The hope was fragile, but it was still hope. Who knows, while I immersed myself in the depths of my memories, something might happen. An answer might appear. A change might finally come. And if it didn’t… well, at least I could hold on to those memories until the end.

I decided to abandon all futile thoughts and dive deep into my memory, like a castaway clinging to the one thing that could offer some anchor in the vast emptiness.

Unexpectedly, I found myself able to explore memories I thought had long been erased, fragments that seemed unreachable due to the wear of time. Suddenly, vivid and real images emerged. I saw the moment of my birth: the bright light of the delivery room, the determined look on the midwife’s face, the quick and careful movements of the nurses.

What struck me the most, though, was the face of my mother. She was there, holding me for the first time, her brown eyes overflowing with a joy that no words could describe. Her expression, a mix of relief and happiness, seemed to radiate warmth—something that, even in this absolute void, I could feel. It was as if, for a moment, I was back to that day, wrapped in the pure and unconditional love only she could give.

Still, the persistent question arose in my mind: "Why can I remember this now?"

It felt as if I were being taken back to the origin of it all, to the furthest, most primal point of my existence.

"Oh, I forgot… no one is here," I thought, with a sense of emptiness, as if my mind were merely echoing thoughts without answers.

No time to check, the memories continued to flow, unannounced, like a river that doesn’t care to take me where I don’t wish to go. I saw my mother once again, young and radiant, a beautiful and graceful woman, her curly hair falling softly over her shoulders. She was in the kitchen, preparing lunch, her presence radiating a calm that somehow seemed to be the soul of the house. I, still a child, maybe 12 or 13 years old, was by her side, helping awkwardly but enthusiastically.

The sounds of the kitchen, the rustling of the knife chopping vegetables, the bubbling of the pot, everything was familiar. I felt safe there, as if that moment were eternal, as if nothing could take away that feeling of peace.

Until, suddenly, a familiar sound broke the quiet routine: the squeal of car brakes, followed by the sound of the engine shutting off. I knew exactly what it was. My father’s old Toyota Land Cruiser, a car that had seen better days but had always been synonymous with home, with safety, was arriving. It was the sound of my father coming home. I could see the scene in my mind: the car parking, the click of the door opening, and for a moment, I could almost smell the earth and gasoline it carried after a day’s work.

I quickly went to the door to wait for him. The sound of footsteps approaching was a familiar relief. When the door opened, the man who stepped in seemed like a giant to me. It was my father.

He was imposing, standing at an impressive 6'6", while I, at 5'5", felt small beside him. His curly hair, cut short and straight, was so characteristic of his appearance, and his eyes, darker than my mother’s, seemed to reflect the very universe. Yet, what captivated me the most about this man was his smile—a smile so radiant and genuine that it seemed to light up the entire room.

"Look at this wonder, the one I most wanted to find at home," he said, his gaze softening when he saw me there, waiting by the door.