I felt my heart getting squeezed by some invisible force till I had difficulty breathing. My legs felt like they were made of jello, the joints of my knees threatening to buckle and collapse upon themselves, lest I hold onto something. Tears pricked my eyes but refused to fall, making me feel as if my eyeballs were burning.

"It wasn't your fault Tim," I heard the woman — no — my wife says to me from behind, while I stared at her supposed body, the bloodied mess that was her face. Was she even alive? I couldn't see her chest move underneath the white sheet that hid her form.

"Timothy!" I felt her come closer. The strange warmth I felt before when I met her in the bar, now felt intimately familiar. Her voice was something I had heard a million times before. "It was not your fault."

"How could you say that!" I turned around and roared, causing her to take a step back in fear. I felt so angry but my eyes still wouldn't weep, like they weren't believing what they were seeing. "How could you say that?" My tone softened then, voice quivering. "Who was steering the car, Meg?" I remembered her name. Like thunder strikes, the night all of this happened was coming back to me in flashes. "I was the one who was driving, Meg. I was the one who removed my eyes from the road. And I was the one who didn't see the truck coming until it was too damn late. You, John...God you both are dead because of me!"

But my wife shook her head. She stepped forward, arms reaching for my sides like I was a wild animal, caged and afraid. "Oh, Tim. Come here, please," and I did. Followed her arms like she was my lighthouse on a stormy sea, her embrace the comfort of home.

You killed her, my mind whispered as I embraced my wife. You killed your son, I hugged her tighter, as if doing so would take all the pain away and I would awaken once again in my bed, warm and safe and not here...whatever this place was.

"It was the truck that crashed into us, Tim" she whispered in my ears. "It wasn't your fault. Please understand. It was the truck who did this to me, to Roy and you. It wasn't you."

But those felt hollow to me, my skin numb to the pain even when my eyes burned. Why can't I cry? I buried my face into her hair, taking in her scent, trying to hold myself, but I felt I was slipping into an abyss. Falling, falling, falling…

"Tim!" And like always it was her voice that brought me back. Her hands grasped my face, soft cold fingers running across my cheeks. "Tim, please listen to me. It was not your fault."

"But you both are dead."

"No, we aren't, Tim. We are not dead."

"What are you saying?" I couldn't hold onto my anger and lash out. Pushing myself away from her embrace.

My emotions it seemed were all over the place, sometimes in the depth of despair, plagued with sobs and misery. The next moment, I was frothing with rage, wanting to burn the whole world down in retaliation for what happened to my family. "You both are dead," I harshly pointed at the bodies lying on the bed. "See that. You both are dead!"

"No, we are not!" It was her time to scream at me. Her beautiful blue eyes were filled with fire yet I could see them drowning in love for me. "Tim come with me," she grasped my hands again and pulled me towards the bed but my feet dug onto the floor refusing to move. Once my eyes were removed from their broken visage, it no longer wanted to see them again. But Meg wasn't having any of it. She pulled and pulled until I was standing just beside my son's bed, looking down at his frighteningly still body.

"What do you want me to see? That John is dead?" I wanted to wretch my hands from her grasp and run away, but she held on, refusing to let go.

"No. I'm trying to make you see that he is still alive." Then she took my hand and placed it on my son's chest.

My fingers grasped the thin white sheet that covered his body. "What do you want me to see God dammit? He isn't even breathi— "

I felt it then. It was small, barely there and for a moment I thought I was merely dreaming about it. But I hadn't. Though it was minuscule, my son's chest rose gently, then came down. It rose again, then came down once more. My son was alive. John was breathing.

Perhaps seeing the wonder on my face, Meg removed her hand from mine, and instantly I bent down and had my ears right near his lips. Trying to hear and feel my son's breaths. To prove to myself that it wasn't a dream. It wasn't. He breathed. Slowly, softly, my son breathed. God! Finally, I felt tears falling down my eyes while I felt my heart could burst with joy.

But then I moved. Running past my son's bed, I reached for my wife.

At first, my steps faltered, her beautiful face was bloody enough to make me want to tear my heart out. But I stopped and instead braved myself to come in closer. Take in her bloodied features. If I was the one who did it, then I should be able to look into her face and feel it.

So carefully holding the edges of the bed, I took a knee and brought my ears closer to her face. Her lips or what was supposed to be her lips were right beside my ears. I wanted to hear her breath. Please Meg, I prayed, my nostrils stained with the stench of blood. Please. And she too did.

If John's breaths were soft and shallow, Meg's breaths felt like they were barely even there. Like if I removed my head, they would stop entirely and she would disappear.

"You're still alive," I whispered in awe. Just barely, but still alive. I could hardly believe it. My knees hence buckled and I collapsed near her bed, holding her body gently but close to myself.

"How?" I couldn't help but ask after a while. My voice was raw and tears stained my cheeks.

Megan — my wife — or the still moving version of her, walked around the bed to come and sit by my side. Her fingers rested on my shoulders. "I don't remember, Tim. It's all blurry. We were on the road. It was raining. We were talking and the next thing I remember was the truck crashing into us, flipping our car over and over again, and then... nothing." She took in a deep breath. "Until we found ourselves here."

"We?" I blinked then realisation slapped me on the face. "You mean…" I could complete my words but simply stare at the unconscious form of my son. "Is he…"

My wife nodded and smiled sadly. "John was the first to wake up in this place. Then I came into being. After that, he decided he would somehow find you and talk to you, and that's how you both met."

"I did," I rubbed the tears from my eyes, then we slowly stood up. "I found him after my Core was released from its cocoon. He was there, wearing his favourite Mickey mouse t-shirt and advising his father how to not screw up." I chuckled with fondness. "I thought he was a mini version of myself. All grown up and mature. My memories were still all over the place, so he helped me take control of my emotions and make peace with the Dungeon Committee Representative who I felt had killed me."

"Killed you?" My wife asked, alarmed, but I gently brushed her concerns aside.

"The removal of a Dungeon Core from its cocoon was a painful business, Meg," I couldn't help but winch at the memory while running a hand through my head. "Still it had to be done and afterwards, I asked her to allow me to see my Core." I shrugged. "And thank god I did, otherwise I wouldn't be here."

"Ah, I see," she replied.

And I think she did. So I asked her. "Is this truly my Dungeon Core?"

"Yeah, we are your Dungeon Core. Surprise I guess," she tried to joke but it came forth as contrived and sad

"Yeah," my smile was brittle as well. "So what should I do now? You tell me you all aren't dead, but both of you aren't much alive either. Is there something I can do to help you guys?" And then a sudden painful thought crept into my mind. "God's, I'm so stupid. Are you guys in pain? Is there anything I can do to stop it?"

But seeing the panic quickly growing in my features, my wife shook her head. "No, no we are not in pain. Just hanging in limbo with a part of our consciousness living inside the Core. That is what you are seeing now, Tim." She then pulled me away from the bed and moved towards the door. I followed her willingly. "As for helping us, you cannot do much I'm afraid but give us more time."

"Time?" I asked, confused.

"Yes," she nodded. "Time to heal our injuries."

"You-you mean…"

"Yes," she smiled, bright and beautiful. "We can heal as long as we are in your Dungeon Core. But the healing is a slow process, hence we need time."

"How long?" I couldn't keep the hope bubbling up in my chest. "How long do you need?" I wanted to see them whole, not literal ghosts hanging inside my head.

But Meg's smile dimmed. "I don't know," she admitted. Her voice was pained.

"But Isn't there something I could do?" So I insisted, refusing to simply give up. "Maybe I could take you both out of this place and ask the Dungeon Committee Representative for some help. Surely she could do something."

But my wife was already shaking her head, her eyes wide. "We are your Core, Tim. Crucial for you to be alive since we are joined, mind and body. But if you try to take us out of here," she spared the bodies on the bed a glance. "All three of us will die."

"Then what happens when you are all healed," I couldn't help but ask. "Surely you can't spend the rest of eternity here?"

"That's a question I don't know the answer to, Tim. All that I know, I've told you. So as for what will happen once we heal...I have no clue." She then grasped my shirt, sudden urgency in her tone. "But you must remember, the time we need to heal, you'll not find it easy outside. Because the world we live in now, is not the same one we grew up in."

"What are you talking about?"

But Meg didn't give me the answers. "Ask the Dungeon Committee Representative, Tim. Question her about the dangers you will face once you're a fully formed Dungeon. She is bound to give you a better explanation than me."

I wasn't pleased with that. Not even a bit, but after nearly a decade spent living with Meg, I knew when to push and when not to. This was the latter, so I didn't bother asking her more. "Is there anything else I can do now? Do you or John need anything?"

"Well," the tension in her features faded and she smiled. "You could take up your son's offer and share the cookies and milk he so generously gave you."

I chuckled "Oh yeah, I almost forgot about that. I will do it once I get back. But what about you? Is there anything I can do for you?"

With an impish grin, my wife replied. "Share a drink with me then. I need to see if I still have my old bartender skills with me."

I chuckled and nodded. "Oh, I have no doubt you still have it."

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