Easter Monday, 2025. After 88 years of living on our beautiful wide earth, I have died in my sleep. It was a matter of time, I thought. Serving devotely for our God and Christ for so many, it was only natural to pass on.

  Yet, after so many years, I still thought I had regrets.

  As the pope, I tried to lead our community on a dignified and humane path. Respect for others, forgiveness of sins, and equality for disparaged groups. There was only so much I did, so much I could do. Drifting in this endless darkness, waiting for God to welcome me in his realm, I couldn’t help but feel regret.

  I wish I did more.

  “Would you like to do more?” someone asked, a man with a sonorous voice. It was like a hammer striking down stone, powerful and grave, and full of power. “Open your eyes, child.”

  Sluggishly, my eyes fluttered open, finding my wary body floating in an endless navy sea of stars. My hands touched the purple marbled ground and looked upon the feet of the stranger.

  A man in a fine black tunic with a blue shawl wrapped around his lithe shape extended his hand at me. The other was behind his straightened back. His skin was like brown cocoa and his beard neatly trimmed. Black hair and sapphire like eyes burned like an endless flame.

  He grinned at me. “Welcome, Francis. I came to welcome you personally.”

  Blinking, I couldn’t fathom who was there to witness me. Was this God? The Holy Spirit? His Son? Or the fiery gatekeeper to the heavens? If so, where were the Pearly Gates? Where was the Kingdom of Light?

  Why were the stars so dimmed in this sea of nothingness?

  “Who are you?” I sputtered , trying to find my strength in my old and strained voice.

  The man’s grin widened. “Who? My name’s Demiurge, the Creator, the one and only. Your god has forsaken you Francis, right until your final breath. He did not bother to reveal his presence to you, nor to his followers, for he was never there.”

  Demiurge’s hands glided over mine, caressing them in his scorching warm hands. “But do not fret, my child, for I have never forsaken you. For I am in need of a new shepard on my earth. My people need a strong leader, one who could lead them.”

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  As he opened my hands, forming a singular bright star and then into a white triangle with a black void inside. Curling around it, a lion-headed snake roared.

  “Take my gift, Francis. For you, I have many. You will be powerful, you will be strong enough to shape the world to your image. Let me guide you. I am the God who creates. Will you rectify this world and turn it into one of worth?”

  Tired and sleepy, my eyes drifted back to those of Demiurge. The sacrosanct tinge in his speech lulled me. I bobbed my hand and removed my hands from his.

  “Forgive me, but you’re not my god.” I folded my hands before my chest into a prayer. “I am not the one you shall seek. You need to find a soul willing to devote their entire soul to you. Mine has only enough room for my God, his Holy Spirit, and his Son.”

  A gentle smile caressed my lips and studied his expression. Revulsion was all there was.

  “Scorning my gift of a second life. You human proved yourself nothing but unworthy of my time.” His hand snared around my throat, lifting me up.

  I was already dead, but the pain of suffocation was all too real. Venomous pile choked me of all my life. My hands clasped around his, trying to find some leeway to breathe.

  “You shall not ascend to my heavens or depart to nothingness. You shall receive your second life, Francis. A second life of torment and misfortune, branded as a sinner and heretic by my followers. Rejoice, black sheep, any devoting last words to make me forgive you? Or to curse me? Say them.”

  Last words? Curses? No, I don’t have any need for them.

  My hands folded over his arms and pointed at the sky. If there was one last thing left to do, it was to uphold my teachings as a devout. “I. Forgive… You.”

  Demiurge didn’t change his expression. His mine remained as somber as his realm. Unforgiving and wrathful. It would not be the last time I saw him as he set my body aflame, cindering me from the inside. My body would turn to ash, scattering into the abyss below and into the arms of a family.

  A storm was brewing outside, drowning the infant cries I felt myself fall onto.

  “What is this?” a man in white robes asked, pulling down the cloth from his mouth. “A mark of God?”

  Another man leaned in, followed by an exhausted woman. Their expressions soured upon looking at me. Shock, contempt, revulsion. As if I wasn’t a human being in their eyes.

  “An Ashen Cross,” the man said gravely. The woman covered her mouth. “My child, a heretic of god.”

  “Why,” cried the woman, dropping my crying self from her arms only to be caught by my dazed father. “Oh god, what did we do to deserve this? Stone him dear, stone him now!”

  Bewildered, my consciousness looked up. Right at the shape of Demiurge standing above me, glowering down with crossed arms. “Suffer for your insolence. Be branded for all eternity, Francis, and may you never find love or acceptance in your second life.”