They say purgatory is a waiting room for the soul, but no one tells you how quiet it is here. There’s no fire, no thunder, no gods weighing your sins on golden scales. Just stillness. Like the world paused mid-thought. A sky that forgets to turn blue. A horizon that never begins.
I woke up on a bench that didn’t exist a moment ago, wearing the same office shirt I wore the day I... well, whenever that was. I don’t remember the pain. Just a strange kind of heaviness — not on my body, but inside it. A restlessness with no name. Like a phone ringing in a dream, you can’t wake up from it.
Hi, I am Prakash. They told me I did mostly good. But sometimes, it seems, the smallest cracks are enough to let eternity seep in.
And just like that, I landed up in purgatory. It's been several years, and I’m working here as the Postman - the purgatory Postman.
And just like any other day, I was sitting on the bench near the rusted gate of the post office, watching the grey sky blink—never fully day, never really night. Just then, a voice broke the silence.
A guy in his mid-20s stood in the middle of the street, eyes scanning everything like he’d just woken up from a strange dream. He had that look — confused, detached, like nothing around him made sense yet. I’ve seen that look too many times.
Everything around us was quiet, as usual. Too quiet. The shops stood open but empty, the tea stall across the road let out a soft wisp of steam, and the sky — that dull, unchanging grey — sat overhead like it forgot how to be blue. You get used to it after a while. He hadn’t.
I walked up to him.
“First time?” I asked.
He turned toward me slowly, still trying to make sense of what he was seeing
“Where am I?” he asked.
“Purgatory,” I said. “You just woke up, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “Feels like I’m dreaming.”
“Yeah, it does that to most people at first,” I said, stepping a little closer. “But it’s real. This is where people like us land when we’ve still got something left to fix.”
He looked down at his hand. A folded letter. No memory of where it came from. Or how he got here. It had his name scattered on the top - “MR. DARSHAN ANAND”.
“This was with me when I woke up,” he said.
I took the letter and opened it. A small silence passed as I read it.
“Well, look at that,” I said, lifting my eyebrows. “You’re my intern.”
“Huh?”
“I’m Prakash,” I said, holding out my hand. “Postman. Looks like you’re assigned to the post office. You’ll be working with me.”
He shook my hand slowly, still clearly in the middle of processing everything.
“There’s a post office here?”
“Yeah,” I said with a small smile. “Just like the world you came from. People work here — vendors, barbers, cooks, cleaners… and me, the postman.”
He murmured, almost to himself, “Vendors… postman…”
He followed without saying much after that. Still unsure — but I could tell. A part of him had already accepted it, even if his mind hadn’t caught up yet.
As we walked, I gave him space to absorb it. It’s a lot, waking up here. Everyone reacts differently.
The road stretched ahead of us, narrow and clean, lined with small buildings that looked lived-in but untouched by time. Faded paint, quiet windows. Laundry hung from balconies, not moving — no wind here. Not ever.
“It looks like Earth,” he finally said, looking around.
“It does,” I nodded. “At first glance, it feels familiar. Like a town, you might’ve passed through once. But if you really look, it’s off. The quiet hits you first. No birds, no cars. No sound unless people are talking. The sky’s always this dull grey — like the sun forgot to show up.”
He stayed quiet, so I kept going, not pushing too hard.
“No one really remembers how they got here,” I said. “One minute you’re somewhere else — a hospital bed, a street corner, maybe even your own room — and the next, you wake up here. It’s not death, not exactly. But it’s not life either.”
He looked over at me, and I saw the question forming before he asked it.
“Why are we here?”
I shrugged gently. “They say this is the in-between. Purgatory. A place you come to after you die — not heaven, not hell, but somewhere in the middle. For people like us.”
“Like us?” he asked.
“People with baggage,” I said. “Regrets. Guilt. Things left unresolved. So instead of moving on, we end up here.”
He looked around as if the buildings might suddenly explain it all.
“And what are we supposed to do?” he asked.
“Work,” I said. “Most of us are given a job. You don’t choose it — the place decides. Based on what your soul needs. It’s not punishment exactly… more like repentance. A way to cleanse ourselves. To make up for things we did—or didn’t do—in life.”
He nodded slowly, still absorbing it. I could see the weight beginning to settle in his chest. That quiet understanding. The one we all get, eventually.
We passed a woman trimming plants outside a tiny house. She looked up, nodded politely, and went back to her shears.
“Time’s strange here,” I added. “Days don’t really pass. They just stretch out, slow and steady, like the world’s taking a deep breath.”
He looked around again, a little uncertain. “Is this some kind of punishment?”
I shook my head. “No, not really. It’s quiet here. No fire, no thunder, no pain. More like a pause — a chance to set things right. We’re all here working toward something. A kind of healing. Preparing for what comes next.”
We turned the corner. A small cabin with a slanted roof came into view. A dusty red board above the door read “Post Office” in fading white letters.
“And this,” I said, gesturing toward it, “is where we work.”
He stared at it, taking in the cracked windows and the crooked mailbox nailed beside the door.
“It’s not much,” I said. “But it’s ours. Come on, I’ll show you around.”
I glanced over at him as we walked, the worn path crunching softly beneath our feet. I continued - “So, the post office — that’s where people send their letters.”
Darshan looked at me, eyes wide. “Letters? But... to who? Who gets these letters here?”
I smiled. “To people on Earth. To the ones they love — family, friends, even strangers they wished they could’ve spoken to. But it’s not like regular mail. Here, letters don’t just get delivered. They become dreams.”
He blinked, confused. “Dreams? Like, when you sleep?”
I nodded slowly. “Exactly. You see, in this place, words don’t travel through paper or postmen. They travel through the quiet spaces of the mind. When someone on Earth sleeps, sometimes they receive a dream — a message sent from a soul here, through the post office.”
Darshan looked around, taking in the stillness. “So... every dream is a letter?”
I chuckled softly. “Not all dreams, no. Some are just the mind sorting itself out. But some — the ones that linger, that feel different, that touch you deep down — those are letters. Messages from someone who wants to reach out, to say something they couldn’t say in life.”
We slowed as the post-cabin came into view, its wooden walls faded but steady, a little lantern flickering in the window. It looked ordinary enough, but here, even ordinary felt special.
“To be honest,” I said, “working here isn’t just about sorting mail or delivering letters. It’s about hope, about connection. This place, strange as it is, is filled with love. Everyone who comes here sends their words — their feelings, their apologies, their thanks — wrapped in dreams. It’s like we’re weaving threads between souls, giving people a chance to heal, to say goodbye, or even to start anew.”
Darshan’s eyes softened a bit, the weight of confusion lifting for a moment. “That... actually sounds kind of beautiful.”
I nodded. “It is. It’s peaceful here, really. Because no matter what we do in life, here we get a chance to send a little light — one dream, one letter, at a time.”
Darshan smiled softly and gave a slow nod, absorbing what I’d just said. Then, out of nowhere, he asked, “Okay… but why am I here? At the post office?”
I glanced at him. “My serving period is almost over. I requested a backfill, and they chose you for the post office.”
“Serving period?” He frowned. “How long have you been here?”
“Twenty years.”
“Twenty years?” His eyes went wide. “So you came here when you were a baby?”
I laughed. “In purgatory, you don’t age. I arrived here when I was thirty.”
“You don’t age?” He looked around, confused. “But I’ve seen people who look old, even babies here.”
I shrugged with a grin. “The babies, especially — some of them have been here for over fifty years. But come on, you don’t age here.”
Darshan’s brow furrowed. “What sin could a baby have?”
I gave him a quiet smile. “You might not know. Sometimes the weight we carry isn’t ours alone. Sometimes it’s tied to those we come from.”
He looked away for a moment, then asked softly, “So… where do you go after? Is there a release?”
I paused, looking down the quiet street. “That’s the hope. When your time is done here, when you’ve served and made peace, you move on. Maybe to rest, maybe to something better. But that day… no one knows exactly when it comes.”
He looked confused.
I looked at him seriously. “Judgment Day — that’s the day. The day when you’re weighed when it’s decided if you go to heaven or hell.”
Darshan’s eyes widened. “What happens then?”
“No one really knows,” I said. “They say some higher power judges you and sends you where you belong. But what exactly happens, no one can say for sure.”
I sighed softly. “Still, every soul here is waiting for that day. It’s the hope we hold onto. The chance to finally find peace, or to start over.”
Darshan looked thoughtful for a moment, then asked quietly, “What about you, Prakash? What was your life like before all this?”
I hesitated, the memories surfacing like distant echoes. “I worked as a manager in a private firm. Life was… comfortable. I earned well and had a decent routine. But there was one thing missing — companionship. Loneliness settled in like a shadow I couldn’t shake.”
He glanced at me with concern. “Did you have family?”
“No,” I admitted softly. “I lived alone. My parents died when I was young, and I was raised by my grandparents. But they passed away just before I finished school. Since then, it’s been just me. I always longed for a family — a home filled with love, laughter, and warmth. That’s what I missed the most.”
I looked around, at the quiet street and the faces of those who shared this space. “And that’s why, in a way, I think purgatory became my true calling. Here, among these souls, I find something I never had in life — love and hope. Everyone here is like family. Friends, sisters, brothers. Despite everything, all I see around me are smiles, kindness, and a sense of belonging. It’s not perfect, but it’s real. And sometimes, that’s enough.”
Darshan raised his brows - “And how did you die ?”.
I exhaled slowly, the memory still heavy. “Unexpected car crash,” I said quietly. “It was sudden. No warnings.”
Then, after a moment, I looked at him. “What about you?”
He gave a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Almost the exact opposite of yours.”
I raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
Darshan’s eyes darkened. “You always longed for a family… but I always dreaded being born into one. I hated my family, especially my father. My mom… at least she tried. She cared, struggled even. But my dad? He was different. Cruel. Always distant, never there when it mattered.”
I could see the pain flicker across his face. “May I ask… what happened?”
Darshan swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “My father… he died by suicide. He left us without a word, without a goodbye. Ran away from all his problems. I call him a coward. Because he gave up on us — on me — when I needed him the most. And that scarred me, shaped me into someone who’s scared of love and family, who doesn’t trust easily.”
Darshan hesitated for a moment before speaking quietly, “My mom… she tried her best. She worked two jobs just to keep us afloat, stayed up late worrying about me, doing everything she could. But sometimes, I couldn’t help but wonder why she chose to marry someone like my father — someone who made our home a place of fear and silence.”
He shook his head, a sad smile breaking through. “I know it’s not fair to blame her. She was fighting her own battles. But when you grow up feeling like you’re constantly on the edge, even love can feel like a complicated, heavy thing.”
He looked away, jaw clenched tight. “That’s why I’m here, I guess. Trying to make sense of a life that was never easy, trying to find some peace where there was none before.”
After a heavy silence, Darshan finally asked, “You died in an accident... but what do you think your sin was?”
I looked away for a moment, then spoke softly, “I honestly don’t know. Like I said before about the baby here, sometimes it’s not about what we did, but the sins and burdens passed down to us. Regrets, unresolved wounds… that’s what can keep a soul here.”
I noticed Darshan’s eyes darken with thought, so I added gently, “Maybe that’s why you’re here too. Not because of what you did, but because of what you’re still holding onto.”
As days passed in the stillness of purgatory, Darshan and I found a bond neither of us saw coming. What began as guidance turned into quiet companionship — forged not just through shared duties, but through the loneliness we both carried. We spoke of regrets, laughed at old memories, and often sat in silence that felt strangely healing. In each other, we found what life had denied us: connection. We became more than coworkers — we became brothers, filling the emptiness with presence. In a place between worlds, we had finally found peace in each other.
And then, one day, it happened.
The Judgment Day arrived — quiet, not thunderous, as people had imagined. Just a soft hum in the air, a stillness that told you something had changed. Prakash stood at the threshold of the great cloudy archway, the entrance to whatever lay beyond. It shimmered like a long gate made of mist and sky.
Before leaving, he turned to Darshan, arms wide open.
He pulled him into a firm hug, his voice low but full of affection.
“There have been many interns I’ve worked with here,” he said, smiling. “But none showed a reason to stay. You… you brought something different. A purpose. A light.”
He paused, holding Darshan by the shoulders now.
“This place — it chose you. Maybe because it knows. You didn’t need to pass on yet. You needed healing. You needed to give love... and feel it too. Maybe you’ve found that here.”
Darshan couldn’t speak — his throat felt tight. He simply nodded.
Prakash took a step toward the gate, then turned one last time and waved, eyes warm. Then, just like that, he vanished — like a breath fading in winter air.
He was gone.
For a long time, Darshan stood frozen, the letter still in his hand, heart heavier than ever. The weight wasn’t from sadness alone — it was from something unfamiliar but true. Love. He had felt it, understood it, maybe for the first time.
And now, it hurts.
He walked back slowly to the post office, the empty chair beside his, the silence hanging thicker than usual. Near the bend, he stopped — the familiar place where he and Prakash used to sip tea and joke about eternity.
He sat there, still in his uniform, still holding the letter meant for a stranger’s dream… but this time, the postman was grieving.
Purgatory was peaceful. But today, it was a little quieter.
And Darshan — now the postman — let his head hang low, letting himself feel every crack in the heart he never thought he had.
Darshan sat by the bench, still fighting the heaviness in his chest, when he heard it — a soft knock on the post office door.
He quickly wiped his tears, stood up, and walked over. The door creaked open.
And there he was.
“Prakash?” Darshan whispered, eyes wide in disbelief.
He stood there — the same kind face, the gentle eyes — though something in them looked different now. More worn. More... tired.
“You’re here?” Darshan asked, stepping forward, unsure if it was real. “You came back?”
Prakash nodded softly. “I came back.”
Darshan stared, confused. “But... you left. You walked through that gate. I saw it. What do you mean you came back? Didn’t your service end? Didn’t you meet the eternal power or whatever’s there?”
A thousand questions raced through his mind, but Prakash stood still, silent for a moment, his expression unreadable.
“What happened?” Darshan asked again, his voice cracking with emotion. “Why are you back?”
Prakash’s voice was calm but quiet. “I’m not going. Not yet. I told them... I want to stay here.”
Darshan rushed forward and hugged him tightly, as if afraid he might vanish again. “Wait, wait — what? Why? What happened? Are you okay?”
Prakash sat down beside Darshan, his eyes a little distant — as if he was still halfway between this world and the one he had just returned from. Darshan waited silently, watching his friend breathe in, hold it for a moment, and then begin.
“Let me tell you the full story,” Prakash said, his voice low, almost reverent.
“When I left… I walked down a long, endless stretch of clouds. The air was thick with silence like time itself had paused. Everything was pale—not white, not grey, just… weightless. The ground beneath my feet felt soft, almost like walking on memory. There was smoke in the air, but it wasn’t choking. It was warm, like incense, like dreams dissolving.”
He paused, glancing at Darshan before continuing.
“Then I heard it — the voice. Not loud. Not angry. Just… eternal. It came from nowhere and everywhere at once.”
He straightened slightly, eyes wide as if reliving the moment. “‘Prakash,’ it said. ‘Are you ready? Do you believe your soul is cleansed?’”
Darshan leaned in. “And you said?”
“I said yes,” Prakash replied, softly. “Because I believed it. I had done my time. Helped people. Waited patiently. Found peace. Or so I thought.”
He swallowed.
“Then the voice said — ‘Now open the door, and meet the judge.’”
Prakash looked up at the ceiling as if seeing the door again. “It was massive. A never-ending gate, stretching hundreds of feet tall. Carved with symbols I didn’t understand. It creaked open slowly like it had been waiting centuries. My heart was racing. I was excited. Nervous. I thought I was going to see some divine being — someone glowing, godlike, infinite.”
His voice dropped.
“But when the door fully opened… I saw something else.”
Darshan frowned. “What?”
Prakash turned to him, eyes filled with something deeper than sadness — revelation.
“A mirror.”
Darshan blinked. “A mirror?”
I nodded.
“The eternal voice said—‘Now look back at your own life. Your deeds. Your sins. Every action… and every consequence born from your actions. You decide where you belong.’”
He paused. “And then… the mirror changed.”
“I saw it all — the people I helped, the kindness I gave. The moments I was proud of. But I also saw the shortcuts I took. The times I looked away when I shouldn’t have. Nothing monstrous. Just… the quiet, human failures.”
He inhaled sharply.
“And then I saw Anand.”
Darshan’s breath caught.
His eyes widened. “Anand…?”
His voice was barely a whisper, his legs weak beneath him.
Prakash nodded slowly, his face already crumbling under the weight of memory. “Yes. Anand……your father.”
Darshan staggered back a step, his heart racing. “You knew my dad?”
Prakash’s eyes filled with tears. He nodded again, this time more solemnly. “He was my friend. A brother to me once. We lost touch over the years. Life happened. But then… years later, I saw his name flash on my phone. Just one call. I was busy. I thought I’d call him back later.”
He looked away, voice cracking. “I didn’t know that would be his last call.”
Darshan stood frozen, trying to piece everything together.
“I thought… he died in an accident.”
Prakash’s face tightened. “I thought… he died in an accident. That’s what I was told. But when I stood in front of that eternal mirror… I saw the truth. He took his own life.”
Darshan’s knees buckled, and he grabbed the edge of the post office table for support.
Prakash continued, voice trembling. “He didn’t need saving. He just needed someone to talk to. A voice. A friend. Maybe… if I’d picked up… maybe things would’ve been different.”
He looked at Darshan with shame in his eyes. “I saw his pain in that mirror. And I broke down. That one missed call…”
Darshan stepped forward, slowly, his own eyes glassy. “So… that’s why you came back?”
Prakash nodded. “The eternal voice said, ‘You’ve lived a fair life. Now choose — move forward or stay.’ And I… I chose to stay. The door to heaven opens only once, and I let it pass. Because I couldn’t go without seeing you. Without saying sorry. Not just to you… but to him. Your father wasn’t weak, Darshan. He was a warrior. And even warriors… sometimes need someone to talk to.”
Darshan’s chest tightened. He walked over and gently put a hand on Prakash’s shoulder.
“It’s not your fault,” he said softly, though his voice was heavy with grief. “You didn’t know.”
Prakash shook his head. “Still. One call. One moment. And everything could’ve changed. Your life… his life…”
Darshan blinked away the tears. “And yet… here we are. You stayed back. And maybe… that one moment led to this one.”
They stood in silence for a moment, bound by guilt, by love, and by something deeper — the understanding of what it means to be lonely.
And in the stillness of purgatory, where time moved like fog, two souls stood a little taller — not fully healed, but no longer alone.
Moments of silence passed.
And......
Darshan gasped awake.
His body jerked, drenched in sweat. He was in his own room — back on Earth, alone. His chest heaved as he tried to make sense of it all.
A dream?
He pressed his palm against his heart, still thudding.
And then, something stirred in his mind — a memory from the dream. A conversation, faint but clear. He had once asked Prakash:
“So... every dream is a letter?”
“Not all dreams, no. Some are just the mind sorting itself out. But some — the ones that linger, that feel different, that touch you deep down — those are letters. Messages from someone who wants to reach out, to say something they couldn’t say in life.”
Darshan looked up, eyes moist. He stood, walked to the window, and looked out into the deep night sky.
There, far above,
one star twinkled brighter than the rest.
A quiet sign. A whisper.
Your’s delivering,
Mr. Nothing
Good One 👍🏼
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