Where White Chrysanthemums Bloomed Beneath My Steps

Last week, the day my body rested in a hospital bed, something within me felt as if it stepped beyond the noise of the physical world. Time softened, and I found myself walking through a quiet parallel space that felt unfamiliar yet deeply known.

I saw white chrysanthemums beneath my feet not fragile, but sacred. They felt like a path made of loyalty, purity, and gentle endings. As I walked across them, it was as if parts of my past were being honoured and released with dignity. Not lost simply transformed.

Then came the faces. People and souls I recognised, each carrying memories, emotions, and pieces of my own journey. Meeting them felt like meeting different versions of myself the one who endured, the one who forgave, the one who kept walking even when life felt heavy.

There was no urgency there, no need to fix or prove anything. Only witnessing. Only presence. And perhaps that was the quiet message I brought back with me  that my soul does not need to survive through constant struggle. Sometimes it only needs to remember its own light.