Haven: Part Two

I wake floating on the ocean. Sunlight warms my face. Waves gently lift and lower my body. Maya stands beside me. Smiling. “Good girl.” The phrase sends an immediate chill down my spine. “I knew you’d come to your senses.” Did I? The frustrating thing is, I genuinely don’t know. And somehow, I don’t think Maya is going to tell me. The retreat continues. Life resumes exactly as before. Yoga. Meditation. Breakfast. Silence. Yet now I find myself studying the guests more closely. Listening. Observing. Searching. And the more I look, the stranger they seem. One man can’t remember his surname. Another doesn’t remember where he grew up. A woman cannot recall the face of her husband. Yet none of them appear upset. None of them seem to miss anything. Or anyone. And that’s what finally unsettles me. Because missing things is part of loving them. One afternoon, I ask a guest what he misses most about home. He stirs his tea thoughtfully. Then shrugs. “Nothing.” “Nothing?” “Why would I?” The answer follows me for the rest of the day. Because if you don’t miss anything, I find myself thinking, perhaps nothing ever mattered enough to leave a mark. That night, during meditation, something strange happens. Maya tells us to observe the silence. The room settles. Nobody moves. Nobody speaks. The only sound is the distant trickle of water from the Zen garden. Then suddenly I hear laughter. Children’s laughter. Bright. Joyful. Familiar. For the briefest moment, I see a swing moving back and forth in a sunlit garden. I feel warmth on my face and the overwhelming certainty that somebody I love is nearby. Then it’s gone. The memory disappears so quickly that I can’t hold onto any of it except the feeling. Not grief. Love. Which, I suppose, is often the same thing wearing a different hat. The following morning, I mention it to Maya over breakfast. Something flickers across her face. Concern. Gone almost immediately. “Memories surface sometimes,” she says. “I thought the whole point was getting rid of them.” “Only the painful ones.” “That one wasn’t painful.” Maya lowers her coffee cup. For a moment she stares out towards the sea. “No,” she says quietly. “Not all wounds feel painful when we revisit them.” For a moment she sounds less like a retreat leader and more like someone speaking from experience. Something about the way she says it lingers with me long after the conversation ends. The days continue drifting by. Or perhaps weeks. Time behaves oddly here. No one arrives. No one leaves. Nobody seems to find this unusual. The guests continue their routines with peaceful dedication. Meditation. Smiling. Forgetting. And all the while, a strange feeling grows inside me. The feeling that I’ve misunderstood something fundamental. That Haven isn’t quite what it claims to be. One afternoon I find myself sitting beside the woman who couldn’t remember whether she had children. She smiles politely when I join her. The sea sparkles below us. Beautiful. Endless. Silent. “Do you ever wonder?” I ask. “Wonder what?” “Who you were before you came here?” She considers this. Then shakes her head. “No.” “Why not?” Another smile. Gentle. Empty. “Because I’m happy now.” I look towards the horizon. The answer should feel reassuring. Instead, it breaks my heart a little. The realisation arrives unexpectedly. I’m standing near the gate one evening when I glance at the sign. HAVEN. I blink. The letters shimmer. Blur. Shift. And suddenly I see something that makes my stomach drop. Not Haven. Heaven. The memory arrives all at once. The plane. The airport. The journey. The taxi. The address. A story. Just a story. None of it happened. My mind simply built a story around my arrival. A story I could understand. Because this isn’t a retreat. It’s the afterlife. The sea crashes below. The guests dressed in white. The impossible peace. The missing memories. The endless meditation. Every strange detail suddenly falls into place. Maya appears beside me. Of course she does. She always does. “You figured it out.” My throat feels tight. “This is Heaven?” “Something close to it.” “And the trauma?” Maya gazes out towards the horizon. “Oh yes.” A small smile touches her lips. “If we aren’t careful, trauma from one life can follow us into the next.” I stare at her. Then at the guests wandering peacefully through the gardens. The ones who chose forgetting. The ones who surrendered every wound. Every loss. Every lesson. Every love. I think about the laughter I heard during meditation. The swing. The warmth. The feeling of somebody standing nearby. A memory that wasn’t painful. At least not until it vanished. “And me?” I ask quietly. Maya remains silent for a long moment. The sea breeze lifts her hair. “Most people close it.” “And me?” She smiles. “You always were stubborn.” “That’s not an answer.” For the first time since I met her, she looks uncertain. Only briefly. Only a flicker. Then it’s gone. “No,” she says softly. “It isn’t.” The horizon begins to shimmer. The world feels thinner somehow. Less solid. As though reality itself is beginning to loosen at the edges. Somewhere beyond the sea, something waits. Another beginning. Another life. Another opportunity to make an absolute mess of everything. Which, based on previous experience, feels highly likely. Maya laughs. The sound is warm this time. Human. Almost familiar. The light grows brighter. The sea dissolves into gold. And as I fall towards whatever comes next, I find myself reaching instinctively for something. A memory. A wound. A name. I can’t tell which. Perhaps that’s the point. Somewhere in the distance, I think I hear laughter. Children laughing. Bright. Joyful. Familiar. This time, I hold onto it for as long as I can. Then I wake.