The Gentle Lie

Chapter 28: The Gentle Lie

The first thing Shiro felt… was warmth.

Not fire. Not blood.
But sunlight.

Golden, soft, and humming through the window like a lullaby.

His eyes opened slowly.

No ash. No corpses. No screams in the distance.

A bed.

Sheets—soft, cotton. Clean.

His chest rose and fell in a calm rhythm.
No pain. No terror.

He was home.

“Wha…?”

The word slipped out like a prayer.

He sat up, heart pounding. The walls were familiar—plastered in old posters, his desk littered with pens and notebooks. His hoodie hung from the door.

Outside, birds chirped.

Not the fake kind—no mocking whispers hidden in their cries.

Real birds.

“...was it a dream?” he whispered.

His throat was dry, but not raw. No blood. No soot.

There was a knock on the door.

“Shiro?” His mom’s voice.

Alive.

He froze. His hands began to shake. “...Mom?”

She opened the door, smiling, holding a tray of breakfast. “You’ve been sleeping forever. You missed school. I made eggs.”

He stared at her. Everything inside him screamed this isn’t real, but her eyes—God, her eyes—held no cruelty. No trick. Just love.

His vision blurred.

He ran to her. Threw his arms around her, burying his face in her shoulder, sobbing.

“I’m so sorry—I thought—I thought you were—!”

“Shhh…” she stroked his hair. “Bad dream, sweetheart. Just a nightmare.”

It felt real.

So painfully real.

He sat at the table later, eating toast and eggs while sunlight spilled across the counter. The TV was on. News. Weather. Nothing terrifying.

His phone buzzed.

Daiki: "Dude, you missed class. Are you good?"

He stared at it. The name alone almost made him cry again.

He typed back with trembling fingers: Yeah. Just… rough night.

His mom kissed his forehead before heading to work.

Everything was fine.

Maybe he did go crazy. Maybe he imagined hell. Maybe he just needed help, therapy, or sleep.

Maybe the isekai never happened, Maybe I actually didn’t go to that hell hole of a world

Maybe this was real—Days passed,Normal ones, School, Homework,Texts from friends, Laughter.

I genuinely feel okay now,

The only thing haunting Shiro was how quiet life was.

It had been a Long…Long…time since he has heard nothing but peaceful silence

It felt like it was almost too good to be true, maybe it’s real.

Or maybe it’s not, it’s hard to tell what's reality and what isn’t.

Life is good—Shiro smiles while tears flowed down his face

Is it over?

I finally have some hope right?

I'm still at a point in my life where i'm still scared for my life

But that feeling started to fade.

The terror, the screams—it all felt far away now. Like echoes from a dream he couldn’t quite recall.

And then one morning—

He walked past a mirror.

Stopped.

His reflection was wrong.

Not his face.

But his shadow.

It moved slower.

Half a second behind.

He blinked, stepping closer.

The shadow didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Then it smiled.

He recoiled. Fell back into the dresser and the room flickered.

Just for a heartbeat.

But everything changed.

The air got heavier.

His phone vibrated.

A message.

From Daiki.

But the name was gone—just a black bar.

The message:
“You’re not supposed to be happy.”

Shiro dropped the phone. His stomach flipped. The world around him began to crack—splinters of static forming in the corners of his vision.

Then—The wall tore open.

Not exploded.

Peeled.

Like flesh.

And on the other side wasn’t sky or wood or wiring.

It was them.

All of them.

His mother. His friends. A girl in white. Daiki.

They stood shoulder to shoulder, eyes missing, blood gushing from their mouths.

They chanted in unison:

“He lives in lies.”
“He dies in truth.”
“Begin again.”

Shiro screamed.

The floor gave way. He fell.

Not into darkness.

But back into the flames.

The real world—the one of ash and agony—swallowed him again.

The screams returned.

The heat. The blood. The loneliness.

And worst of all—

His hope was gone.

He had believed. Let himself believe.

And the god had let him.

Somewhere above, laughter echoed—pure and delighted.

“Now it hurts more, doesn’t it?”
“Now you know what you’ve lost.”

Shiro didn’t scream this time.

He just lay there, curled in the soot, his eyes empty.

Because now the worst pain wasn’t death.

It was remembering peace.

And knowing he’d never feel it again.

The world bled.

Ash blanketed the sky like snow from a world gone wrong. The air trembled, heavy with static and sorrow. Shiro walked alone.

Every step echoed like a funeral bell.

His limbs were numb. His heartbeat was sluggish—mechanical. His body moved only because it had to.

This wasn’t the same hallucination as before.

It was different.

Worse.

He passed the wreckage of a broken city. The ruins stretched infinitely, devoured by silence. Somewhere, a child's toy let out a distorted tune—a lullaby twisted by time.

Shiro didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

Then—he saw it.

His home.

Perfect. Untouched. Intact.

A single light glowed in the window.

His chest tightened.

Why was it still here?

His legs moved on their own, carrying him forward through the filth, past twisted buildings leaning like corpses hung by invisible strings.

The door creaked open before he touched it.

Warmth.

Laughter.

Voices.

Shiro’s breath caught in his throat.

He stepped inside.

Home.

The polished floors gleamed under soft lighting. The air smelled like his mother’s cooking. The warmth of the fireplace wrapped around him like a memory.

And at the dining table sat everyone.

His mother. Smiling. His younger self. Laughing. His father. Reading the newspaper. His friends. His classmates.

All of them.

Alive.

He froze. His mind screamed at him to run.

Then his mother turned.

“Oh! You’re late, sweetheart.”

Shiro’s breath shuddered.

This wasn’t possible.

But her voice—it was exactly as he remembered.

Her expression—gentle, welcoming.

She was dead.

He had seen her die. He had held her hand as it went cold.

Yet—here she was.

Smiling.

Waiting for him.

His feet carried him forward before he could stop himself.

“Come, come,” she said, wiping her hands on an apron. “We saved you a plate.”

Shiro sat down.

The chair was solid.

The miso soup smelled right.

The rice—it tasted perfect.

And for a moment—a fragile, dangerous moment—he let himself believe.

A tear slipped down his cheek.

Maybe the hell, the screaming, the death, the god—maybe all of it was a dream.

Maybe he had never left.

Maybe he was home.

“Shiro?” one of his friends asked, grinning. “You okay?”

He choked on a laugh.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I think so.”

But then—

The warmth changed.

The fireplace dimmed.

The candles hissed.

Shiro looked down at his bowl.

The rice had turned to ash.

Blood seeped from the grains.

He looked up.

His mother was still smiling.

But her eyes were gone.

His younger self twitches violently, head jerking in unnatural spasms.

His friend’s face began to crack—fissures splitting skin like fragile glass.

Shiro shot to his feet.

The chair crashed behind him.

The warmth vanished.

The table was gone.

The house was gone.

He was back on the street.

Only now—

they were all dying.

His mother burned.

His friend screamed as unseen blades carved him apart.

His classmates burst like shattered sculptures.

Each one locked eyes with him before death took them.

And still—he heard their voices.

"You let us die."

"You never saved us."

"Why didn’t you try harder?"

Shiro screamed, hands on his ears.

"It’s not real!"

But his heart didn’t believe him.

He ran.

But the streets twisted.

He passed their corpses again and again. Each loop is more detailed. Each death is more violent.

Until—

He saw her.

The one he loved most.

Alive. Untouched.

Standing at the center of it all, beneath a sky that had forgotten the color blue.

She turned.

Tears streamed down her face.

“Shiro,” she whispered.

He ran to her.

He didn’t care anymore. He didn’t care if she was a lie, or a dream, or a trap.

He needed her.

“Please,” he begged. “Please don’t leave me.”

She embraced him.

Cold steel entered his chest.

His breath caught.

She stabbed him.

Deep. Straight through the heart.

He gasped.

Her tears fell onto his cheek.

“I didn’t want to,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry. I love you.”

Shiro collapsed.

She held him as he bled.

Then—she disappeared.

He was alone again.

The blood soaked through his shirt.

His breath became mist.

His body trembled.

The god appeared once more.

Towering. Silent. Watching.

Shiro coughed blood.

Looked up.

And with the last of his strength—

begged.

“I can’t…”

“I can’t do this anymore.”

“I’ve lost everything.”

“I’ve seen them die over and over again.”

“My soul is tired.”

His vision swam.

“If karma is real… if my memories still mean something… then give me something else.”

“Not punishment.”

“Not suffering.”

“Give me a blade.”

“To cut away this agony.”

“To end the screams.”

“To let me rest.”

The blade transformed.

Not steel.

Not torment.

But light.

It entered him—not to kill, but to change.

And in that moment—the pain unraveled.

The world collapsed.

And for the first time—

Shiro smiled.

Not in victory.

Not in vengeance.

But in peace.