Jack Luo — 6 min read

I am sitting on the rough carpet of a small theater with my dad, knees up, popcorn already gone, and the screen in front of us feels way too close, like it is almost leaning over the first row. The movie does not really start, it just is suddenly there, no trailers, no studio logo, just a dark field of nothing and then a shape in the middle of it, my dad but not exactly my dad, more like the outline of his spirit, hazy around the edges, a little translucent, hovering above some kind of invisible floor. Across from him stands the Reaper, but not the classic textbook drawing, more like a tall figure in a faded green black robe that absorbs light instead of reflecting it, face completely hidden, only the suggestion of eye sockets under the hood. There is no crowd, no scenery, no sky, just endless dark around them, and my dad in ghost form looks small and oddly calm. The first attempt at immortality happens without much buildup, as if the movie assumes we already know the stakes: my dad’s spirit looks at the Reaper and nods, like he has already agreed to die, and then he lies down on an invisible bed that appears out of nowhere. He closes his eyes, and the film slows down, letting us see his chest rise and fall fewer and fewer times, until it stops. Instead of cutting to credits or some afterlife montage, the camera pulls close into his face, past the skin, past the skull, into this warm glowing core that is supposedly the origin of his spirit, and you can hear his thoughts as whispers layered on top of each other, asking things like what is the source of me, what is the root of being, what is behind the curtain of death. For a second it feels like he has figured something out, like the glow inside him is stabilizing into something pure, but the Reaper’s voice cuts through the darkness, flat and unimpressed, telling him, understanding is not immortality, you only learned what you are, you did not change what you are. The glow flickers out, the scene snaps back, and my dad’s spirit is suddenly standing again in front of the Reaper, blinking in confusion, as if he just woke up from a nap that failed to become eternity.

He does not quit. The movie jumps forward, no explanation, just the second attempt, and now the space is crowded with other spirits, half formed silhouettes drifting in all directions like they are underwater. My dad’s spirit looks around, then looks at his own hands and decides on a different approach. He starts to pull on the others, not physically, but like gravity, drawing them toward him. At first it is gentle, a few ghostly shapes sliding nearer, merging into his chest with soft muffled sounds, but then he gets greedy, or at least determined, and the pull grows stronger. The whole dark space bends toward him, endless spirits, shapes from every direction, rushing into him, disappearing into his outline. He grows larger and larger until his head almost reaches the top of the frame, and the Reaper, still the same size, is now like a tiny figure standing under a skyscraper made of stolen souls. The sound design ramps up, an echo of thousands of voices overlapping, some begging, some silent, some numb, and my dad’s spirit now speaks with all of them at once, declaring that he has consumed the world, that nothing is outside of him, that this must be immortality because there is nothing left to threaten him. For a moment, the theater is full of that giant presence, and I can feel the bass of his voice in my chest. The Reaper tilts his hood up, as if looking at this enormous spirit for the first time, and then, in a perfectly normal tone, says, you are still mortal. Size did not change your nature. You are only a larger target. He raises one thin hand from the folds of his robe and flicks his wrist like he is brushing dust off his sleeve. The giant spirit shatters with a hollow crack, fragments of light spinning off like broken glass, and then we are back again to my dad’s spirit, reset to his original small human scale, breathing hard, shocked that even swallowing everything did not work.

The third attempt does not feel like a jump so much as a collapse. There are no other spirits in this space now, no crowd, not even the sense of infinite dark. Just my dad’s spirit and the Reaper, standing on what looks like a faint stone platform floating in nothing. My dad’s spirit glances toward the Reaper once and then looks down at his own chest, like he finally realizes the only thing left to transform is himself. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he digs his fingers into his own torso, not with gore or horror, but with the physics of light and mist. His body is made of that same glowing essence we saw in the first attempt, and he starts to tear it apart, pulling strands of himself loose like pulling threads from a sweater. Each strip of shimmering “soul” he pulls free, he lifts to his mouth and consumes, and the film does not rush this at all. We are forced to watch him eat himself piece by piece, his outline flickering, parts of him fading and then reappearing deeper inside, like he is folding his own existence inward. The theater is very quiet, no music, just the soft sound of him breathing and chewing on his own essence. Eventually, there is almost nothing left of him, only a condensed core, roughly the size of a heart or a small stone, hovering where his chest used to be. The Reaper steps closer, and for the first time, there is a hint of respect in the way his hood tilts. You have consumed everything you are, the Reaper says. There is nothing left to take from you. He snaps his fingers, a tiny sound that rings louder than it should, and the core of my dad’s spirit vanishes.

Cut to the stone room. No fade, no transition. One moment there is the Reaper and the remnant of my dad’s spirit, the next moment there is only a rectangular room, built from pale stone blocks that look worn but clean, like a temple that has been stripped of all decoration. There are no doors, no windows, just soft, shadowless light coming from nowhere in particular. In the middle of the room stands my dad, not as a ghost anymore but as his normal self, same clothes he wears in real life, same posture, same slightly tired but stubborn expression. He looks around with this strange mix of fear and awe, turning slowly, touching the stone wall with his palm. His hand does not pass through it, there is no illusion here, everything is solid. I realize I am in the room too, even though we were watching this as a movie just a second ago. I do not remember getting up or walking in, but I am there beside him, also barefoot on the cold stone, feeling the faint texture under my toes. My dad turns to me, eyes bright, almost childlike, and says, is this it, is this immortality? There is genuine happiness in his voice, because nothing is decaying, nothing is hurting him, nothing is being demanded of him. The room is quiet, perfectly stable, like time has stopped ticking. He steps forward and pulls me into a hug, solid and warm, and for a moment I feel safe in a way that feels almost dishonest, like a safety purchased by unplugging the entire universe. We stand there, just breathing, no soundtrack, no narration. After a while, he pulls back and waits, expecting something else to happen, some door to open, some divine figure to appear, some new mission to start. Nothing does. The camera pulls back slowly, revealing the whole rectangular space from above, two small figures in the middle surrounded by unchanging stone. The light does not change, shadows do not move, there is no sign of age or wear accumulating. The theater screen holds that image for a long time, longer than feels comfortable, until it is obvious that this is not a pause before the next act. This is the condition. This is all there is. My dad is still smiling faintly, but there is a question forming in his eyes that he does not yet say out loud, and just when it feels like he might finally ask it, the screen cuts to black and the movie ends, leaving me and my dad still sitting on the carpeted floor of that small theater, the phantom echo of stone and silence hanging in the back of my mind.

Originally published on Medium.