“Wait, can you-”

“Do you accept the conditions?”

“Conditions for what?”

“For the offer…”

“Offer?”

“…that has been presented to you.”

“I’m just, like, super confused right now.”

“There is no confusion: there is only an offer.”

“See, that’s super confusing, though. This dream…”

“You are not dreaming.”

“…doesn’t make any sense. And, um, yeah: I am. Like of course I’m dreaming, dude.”

“You are wide awake.”

“Right. And I’m just supposed to believe you because…you’re, uh-”

“Presenting an offer.”

“Sure.”

“You will never forget this evening if you accept the offer.”

“Wow. Bold proclamation, whatever-the-hell you are. Are you a ghost?”

“Everything will be explained if you accept the offer.”

“Maybe an angel? No, that’s not- I mean, let’s be real: you’re not an angel because, well…come on now.”

“Would you like me to repeat the offer once more? A second explanation is permitted.”

“You’re a hallucination, right? That monotone voice is just…wait! What did Michael Caine call Marley and Marley in the Muppet Christmas Carol? ‘A dollop of daisy’ or something like that?”

“Shall I repeat the offer once more? It is set to expire shortly.”

“Go ahead then.”

“You accept?”

“No! Just…I mean, tell me the gist of it again, is what I mean.”

“Very well. If you accept this offer, you will spend 60 minutes with your deceased parents: both of them, simultaneously, for one uninterrupted hour. It will take place in the living room of your childhood home, as it would have appeared when you were age 13. Each of your parents–your mother and your father–will look precisely as you would remember them from that age. However, during this hour, you will not be permitted to speak or communicate in any way, shape, or form. Spoken words are forbidden, as are written words and non-verbal communication. Dialogue, conversation–however you choose to categorize or label communication between the three of you, it is strictly prohibited. Beyond that restriction, though, you will be free to spend the hour with your deceased parents however you see fit.”

“Jesus f–”

“You will have 60 minutes together.”

“Who are you?”

“No more, no less.”

“No, seriously: who are you?”

“A messenger delivering a message. No more, no less.”

“But, like, who the hell are you?”

“You have one minute to decide. 60 seconds. No more, no less.”

“Why won’t you answer my questions?”

“The time for questions is later. There is only an offer right now, an offer which will not remain for long. If you accept the parameters-”

“Why can’t we talk? Like my mom and dad and me, I mean? Like why is- I mean, how can I trust this is…like how can I believe any of this will actually be, like, real, you know?”

“The concept of reality is wholly contingent on belief, is it not?”

“I don’t know. Maybe?”

“50 seconds.”

“Does that mean they’ll be real, though? Like real real?”

“To accept anything at face value–to believe an experience is real, as you say–is simply to resist the urge to question or analyze that thing while it is in front of you. You will be able to reunite with the two people you miss most in the world, two people whose deaths have caused you unyielding duress from which you have never truly recovered. You will be able to touch and see and smell and hear and embrace your mother and your father for the first time in years. What more would be required as proof in that reality?”

“I just…I don’t know.”

“40 seconds.”

“Wait a sec: can we sing? Like can we sing songs together, my parents and me?”

“Yes. That is acceptable. You may, in fact, sing. But this is not a loophole to communicate beyond the parameters of what is allowed. The restrictions remain, and you may only sing songs that have been previously written and recorded.”

“Will it-“

“30 seconds.”

“Is it really gonna be them? Like really them?”

“If your question regards whether they will be aware of what has happened to them, then the answer is yes. Each will remember every detail of the past as well as you do, and be just as acutely aware of how much time has passed since you were last together.”

“Holy…”

“It will be your mother and your father: in the flesh, with blood and muscle and bone. They will know you, and they will remember you.”

“Um, uh…I-“

“Do you accept the offer? You have 20 seconds to decide.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“All will be revealed after the experience.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Why should you believe anything? Why do you accept the existence of life? Of death? Of love? Of fear? Of hope? Of happiness? Of laughter? Of tears? 10 seconds.”

“All will be revealed after, huh? And I, uh, I mean-”

“5 seconds.”

“OK!”

“You accept?”

“Damn right I do.”

“Very well. Close your eyes, then count to three. When you open your eyes again, you will be where you desire.”

*

The orphaned man closed his eyes.

Following an infinitesimal pause, he counted to one.

His choice to continue playing along with the bizarrely visceral dream was utterly baffling. He knew there wasn’t the slightest chance that what he’d been promised was actually set to occur. It was obvious. The notion that some unexplainable force had chosen him to receive the unexpected and potentially life-changing gift of one more rendezvous with his dead parents? Laughable. Pure nonsense. A patently absurd fever dream, and nothing else.

And yet…for reasons he didn’t entirely comprehend…he couldn’t allow the pulse-pounding dreamscape to slip into the ocean of his subconscious.

The stabbing discomfort–the one demanding he stop and retreat from the fanciful affair–remained as cumbersome as ever. But for the first time in a long time, the shameful pang wasn’t nudging him toward sarcastic surrender.

The orphaned man presumed no answers were forthcoming for his inexplicable willingness to overlook the absurdity of the situation, so he simply moved forward with the entity’s instructions.

With eyes still closed, he counted to two.

If given the time, he might’ve been able to convince himself this was merely his inquisitive mind following the peculiar dream to its logical conclusion. Choosing to frame his engagement as nothing more than a lark driven by intellectual fascination was entirely plausible. But the reality of time’s slow-but-steady forward march meant any explanations were wholly irrelevant in that instant. Potentially precious moments were slipping through his fingers the longer he delayed. There was simply no time to ponder the strange circumstances through his typical mental bloviation. The clock was tick-tick-ticking away, and with nothing left to do but act? He took a long deep breath, then counted to three.

The orphaned man cautiously opened his curious eyes. An initial blurriness gradually dissipated into the center of the room like water down a sewage drain. His focus sharpened…and the familiar surroundings of his childhood living room stunned him into slackjaw. He was actually there: transported to a place he hadn’t laid eyes upon for decades, seated on the same blue-green loveseat he’d spent countless hours lounging on during his teen years.

The uncanny shade and texture of the room’s dark-gray walls was dazzling; ditto the nostalgically familiar way its cheap paint job clashed with the faux marble fireplace. The homemade built-into-the-wall bookshelf was stuffed to the gills with various novels and textbooks like it once had been. The pitch-perfect details even included the prominent row of each family member’s old yearbooks, stretching from Don Bosco Tech to Chelmsford High to the Dr. An Wang middle school.

The orphaned man marveled at the impeccably impressive minutiae on display, until a glance towards the dining room revealed a fuzzy, imprecise line fluttering along the room’s edge. An actual wall had seemingly been erected in place of the invisible barrier he recalled from his youth, and the otherwise inane inaccuracy triggered a twinge of confusion–one that seemed destined to derail the wondrous moment before it began.

But then an eerily well-timed presence popped up in his peripheral, instantaneously killing all other thoughts on the vine. His egg-yolk-type blood began oozing toward the floor from the top of his skull. He blinked rapidly for a few seconds, and took a trio of labored breaths.

The newly noticed arrivals clearly demanded his full attention. Nary a doubt existed given what had transpired thus far. So after a third oxygen-replenishing inhale restored his courage, he craned his neck towards the suddenly conjured pair.

The orphaned man’s awestruck eyes widened at the unencumbered view. A barely perceptible quiver manifested on his lips.

There…sitting on his family’s long-gone couch…dressed in unassuming clothing that hadn’t been fashionable since 2000…looking precisely as he always tried to picture them in his early teen memories…were his parents.

They were there.

His mother and father were really there.

His mother’s lustrous auburn hair was the polar opposite of the chemo-ravaged scalp she’d been cursed with at her death. Her short bangs hung loosely above soothingly gentle eyes, while a luminous smile emitted an indescribable glow.

His father’s four intact limbs weren’t entirely shocking since the man hadn’t been an all-right double amputee until just before dying. Yet seeing his dad holding an acoustic guitar with two fully-formed hands beneath a dimple-creased smile satisfied his soul in an indescribably soothing manner.

The orphaned man’s mouth hung slightly ajar; his dumbfounded expression somewhat masked the child-like wonder he felt coursing through his veins. Unsurprisingly, the sight of pure unfiltered affection from his in-the-flesh parents was too much for his traumatized brain to handle. The gravity of the situation quickly overwhelmed him, and he tightened his mouth into a ghastly pucker, hoping to stem the tidal wave of tears ready to burst forth. His body promptly betrayed his preferred stoicism, though–and he devolved into a blubbering mess.

He wasn’t alone in his suffering for long. Almost instantly, the orphaned man’s tailspin caused his parents to lose emotional control, as well. His parents’ parallel breakdown on the opposing couch sent him sprawling toward them, and he collapsed into their loving arms as his sobbing reached fever pitch.

The three huddled in a tight embrace for what felt like an eternity. Wailing cries accompanied gushing tears, and their group hug soon became engorged with moisture and mucus of indecipherable origins. His father’s overtness was notably out-of-character from a man he’d seen cry no more than twice before, but he brushed aside the oddity with haste. After all: the general unpredictability of human nature in extreme circumstances meant out of the ordinary was perfectly on par for their current situation.

Less easy to dismiss was the barely visible light source shimmering outside a suspiciously blackened window by the couch. The perplexing lack of transparency from what was once a decidedly nonopaque window was confusing on its own–and the apparent outline of the entity within that darkness only further mystified. Even with his head nuzzled in his mother’s lap, and her supernaturally gentle fingers caressing his hair in a maternal manner he’d eternally yearned for, the orphaned man’s impulse to further examine the obfuscation threatened ruin. But then the dulcet opening chords of “In My Life” caught his ear, silencing his relentless internal chatter with startling swiftness.

The orphaned man couldn’t explain why his runaway train mind abruptly stopped. Maybe it was the pristine way his father plucked the acoustic guitar, or the infectious gusto with which he played several rounds of the tune’s relatively brief intro. Perhaps credit belonged with his father’s decision to kick things off with a song deeply-ingrained in the orphaned man’s adolescence. No matter the reason, the bottom line remained the same: he’d become wholly transfixed on the mellifluous moment from the first note.

His astonishment at the musical miracle blossomed further when his mom and dad began singing a stunningly melodious duet. Neither parent had possessed the innate ability to harmonize while they were alive, making their seamless vocal blend in death as confounding as it was hauntingly beautiful. Yet the curious occurrence barely made a blip on his mental radar. Thanks to the enchanting power of his two favorite people crooning his favorite Beatles song in the most unimaginable of venues, it seemed his penchant for succumbing to petty concerns had been temporarily ameliorated.

No longer driven to quibble with the details of a literally-impossible ongoing event, the orphaned man scooched his body to the floor, and cuddled between his parents’ legs: a little boy frightened to leave their side. He closed his misty eyes to luxuriate in the blissful sound. His parents’ voices were sweet as honeysuckle on the vine after so many years of silence, and he opted to savor the otherworldly consonance during the reflective classic rather than join the chorus.

Once his father finished the final few notes of the opening number, they rolled right into a rendition of “Heroes” by David Bowie. The track brought a coy smile to the orphaned man’s face, as it featured the most profound encapsulation of the up-and-down relationship between his oft-cantankerous father and functioning-alcoholic mother…at least in his estimation:

“You? You can be mean. And I? I’ll drink all the time.”

He knew his tickled pink reaction to the bleak-if-apropos lyric would likely appall those with delicate sensibilities. But a predilection for gallows humor had been a defining aspect of his upbringing–and the knowingly playful glances exchanged by his mother and father during the lyrics in question reinforced that notion.

The music came fast and furious from that point forward. The setlist consisted entirely of songs the orphaned man intimately associated with his dearly departed mother and father–which made it easier to ignore his puzzling lack of input over the collection.

Much of the assembled playlist evoked the fondest memories from his life before either parent had passed. The trio sang a song that makes the whole world sing with Barry Manilow’s “Looks Like We Made It”–the ironic theme from his parents’ 25th anniversary party. They mimicked Donald Fagen’s trademark snarl during “Reelin’ in the Years” by Steely Dan, like they’d done on so many AAU basketball road trips. And the early-1990s cheese was on full blast when belting out his mother’s all-time favorite song: “How Am I Supposed to Live Without You” by Michael Bolton. The eclectic mix of ditties also matched his own proclivity for zigging when the world preferred to zag. It wasn’t entirely out of left field for the trio to sing “Scar Tissue” by Red Hot Chili Peppers, “Anyone (Who Knows What Love is)” by Irma Thomas, or the usually-ukulele-played “Blue Red and Grey” by The Who–but each was a pleasant surprise once he recognized the melody. He was far less enthused by the handful of songs seemingly chosen solely to arouse his profound pain. The meditation on life and death displayed by Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Someday Never Comes” hardly felt necessary given the circumstances, and if there was any real purpose for performing the somber “Brokedown Palace” by Grateful Dead–a tune he’d listened to on repeat for weeks on end after his father’s funeral? It eluded the orphaned man entirely. Of course, whether or not any intrinsic value could be found from performing those songs or the Johnny Cash-ified version of Nine Inch Nails’ “Hurt” was irrelevant. A steady stream of tears was no match for the rapture radiating throughout every square inch of his body. Nothing could diminish the orphaned man’s gleeful ecstasy after the music had begun. An ineffable peace had engulfed him: an internal nirvana beyond anything he’d ever imagined possible. The three reunited family members finished a spirited version of the optimistic “Better Things” by The Kinks, then launched into the acoustic-friendly “The Song We Were Singing” from Paul McCartney’s solo days. As they finished singing the full-throated final verse, the orphaned man closed his eyes for a few seconds. When he reopened them, his parents were gone:

Vanished back into the ether in the literal blink of an eye.

**

“Wait…what happened?”

“It ended.”

“What do you mean?”

“It is done.”

“No, not- I mean, like, why did it just-“

“The 60 minutes expired.”

“But I…I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

“You did not get to say hello.”

“That’s not the point, dick.”

“Your confusion appears unfounded. You were promised 60 minutes: no more, no less. You received precisely what was offered, and the experience ended when the time expired.”

“Yeah, but-“

“How do you feel?”

“How do I feel? I don’t- how the hell am I supposed to feel right now?”

“Only you can answer that question.”

“But you said you’d give me answers.”

“A person’s state of mind can only be accurately assessed by that individual.”

“Are you trying to piss me off right now? Just talk normally, dude. Like for real: what the hell was that?”

“It was whatever you choose it to be.”

“That doesn’t make any…I didn’t choose any of this.”

“Do you regret the experience?”

“What?”

“Do you harbor any regrets regarding your decision to accept the offer?”

“I- I mean…I don’t know.”

“Your uncertainty appears quite pervasive.”

“You’re the reason I’m so confused! Like what the…you said you’d give me answers.”

“First: how do you feel?”

“How the hell can I answer that right now? I don’t even…you still haven’t told me what that was. Like at all.”

“The answer is whatever you choose it to be. Perhaps you would like to view it as a gift. Others do.”

“Others?”

“However you choose to remember and reminisce about this evening will be exclusively of your own volition. You were reunited with two people you never again expected to see in your life, were you not?”

“I don’t know. Was I?”

“Do you believe you were?”

“Well, I, uh…no. I don’t, if I’m being honest.”

“Are you being honest?”

“I, uh, yeah. I mean…yeah. I think so.”

“You sound uncertain.”

“You think?!?”

“Perhaps you are less inclined to reject the reality of the preceding events than you would like to believe. After all, it appears a slavish devotion to Earthly logic has done you no favors thus far in life.”

“…were you watching through the window?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It was merely for observation.”

“Was any of that actually real?”

“Reality is wholly contingent on-“

“It wasn’t real, was it?”

“Did it feel real?”

“Honestly? Yeah. It did. It, like, really did. Like it was…it was more real than anything I’ve…like that was the most alive I’ve felt in years, frankly.”

“Then you have answered your own question. If an experience is completely indistinguishable from another, is one more valid? Authenticity does not mean absolute. Who is to say whether one is real while the second is an impostor? There is no need to categorize each and every experience into neat and tidy compartments.”

“But, like, I know the difference between what’s real and what’s not. Like if something’s not real, I can tell.”

“Can you? The human brain’s capacity for manipulation is fascinating. Human beings are capable of unparalleled self-delusion thanks to the brain. It is one of the great mysteries of the universe: the human brain. One of the last, in fact.”

“Am I actually dead right now?”

“You are not.”

“You sure? Like you sure this isn’t some weird hallucination? Like one of those…”

“You are alive.

“…non-stop firing of synapses in the brain right before someone dies or something like that?”

“It is not.”

“Am I in a coma?”

“No. You are in your bed at home.”

“Ok, cool. So it seems like you can actually give, like, straightforward, non-cryptic answers to questions. So who are you?”

“A data collector.”

“For who?”

“You would not understand.”

“Try me.”

“The human brain is many things, but it is far too primitive to comprehend the true extent of circumstances which led to this evening and our encounter together. There is no telling what your mind would contrive to cope with what it simply could not grasp.”

“Didn’t you just say the brain is capable of anything? Seriously: try me.”

“The limitless capacity to fool oneself is not akin to the ability to grasp an unvarnished truth. Your emotional state would never allow the blunt logic of this situation to sink in. The human brain’s need to maintain homeostasis will forever override any desires for true knowledge.”

“So…you’re an alien?”

“However you choose to classify the events of this evening in the-”

“Sounds like a fancy way of saying yes.”

“If that label assists your search for clarity, then there is no reason to dispute it.”

“How’d you make them so real? Like they were so…just so real, man, you know? Like all of it, really. I know it wasn’t actually our old house, or even really them, right? But it…I mean, it was them.”

“Your inquisitive nature is admirable. However, the best answer to your various queries may entail letting the mystery be. Not every revelation is as satisfactory as you may convince yourself ahead of time.”

“Why’d you choose me then? Can you at least explain that? Like what makes me so special? I don’t- wait…I get it now.”

“Is that so?”

“I’m not special. That’s the thing. Like you said there were ‘others’ or whatever, right?”

“Correct.”

“So it’s really more of an experiment than an experience?”

“That is certainly one way to look at this evening.”

“Yeah. Like it’s this huge unbelievably awesome thing for me, right? Or for anyone else who you offer this to. But it’s just another day at the office for you, isn’t it? Like none of this small-scale, personal stuff really matters to you or whoever you work for. It’s just small potatoes.”

“There is no such thing as large or small in the grand scheme of the universe. Not in the way you are describing it. Everything is of equal importance.”

“But, like, I’ll remember this night for the rest of my life, right? You know that. Like no matter what it was: I’ll never be able to forget tonight. Ever. My life will never be the same, you know?”

“That is eminently understandable.”

“Not you, though. Like you’ll eventually forget tonight the same way I can’t remember a random Tuesday shift from four years ago. The petty concerns of us silly little humans are only worth studying, right? Like we’re just mice trying to work our way through a maze under duress while you take your notes.”

“Nothing is ever forgotten. Everything exists eternally in some form or another. And do not be so quick to dismiss the position of the lowly mouse. After all: scale is entirely subjective.”

***

The entity levitated motionless within a pitch-black cavernous space of Brobdingnagian proportions.

The entity twitched. A barrage of holographic images suddenly spawned from the darkness. A series of spritely scenes popped up one by one. An illuminated scroll of audio visual recordings displayed various humans from every corner of the Earth–each involving the observation of two or more people interacting in some emotionally charged situation or another. Rows of symbols and indecipherable text captioned the limitless series of images.

The entity twitched again. The most recent entry in the cornucopia of voyeuristic data immediately isolated from the remainder: a scene featuring a 30-something adult man reuniting with his long-deceased mother and father sans the ability to communicate.

The entity twitched once more. A line of thoughts began transposing across the hologram. The necessary label for the highlighted scene began thusly, translated as:

STUDY OF HUMAN EMOTIONS AND EMOTIONAL REACTIONS IN AUTHENTICALLY STAGED SITUATIONS

TRAUMA AND GRIEF SUBSECTION (DPS)

SCENARIO # 111456062553:

Adult male – mid-30s – both parents deceased for at least 10 years – no communication permitted*

• Participant not made aware of circumstances or specific details of simulation beforehand

• Participant initially hesitant but fully immersed in belief during experiment

• Participant appeared aware of certain technical flaws during simulation – consider new methodology to resolve potential issue in future experiments

*Allowed singing of pre-written songs

[Additional variable to consider during future analysis]

The entity twitched a final time. Instantaneously, the colorfully illuminated pictures and words disappeared back into the infinite darkness.

The entity returned to solitary silence within the sable spaciousness: waiting for its next interstellar assignment to begin.