The boy woke up in a pile of ashes. Above him, the sky barely had any diminishing qualities apart from what have broken his fall. Around him lay bare nothingness, an absence of cold and heat altogether, a true lack of wind, and the only stirr that moved the ashes below him was the tentative movements that he made to sit up and at last rise. His voice was dry and would no doubt choke if he tried to use it, if anything to break the soundless place he found himself in. Then there was a soft strumming. A man with a guitar, in the distance.
He climbed out of his ashy pile to walk toward the song, and finally met a man clothed in the essentials, the bare essentials. He had no shirt, very loose fitting sweatpants and a lack of shies. His hair was long, almost down to the floor in the place where he sat. As he leaned back, a tree sprouted itself to support his weight. And on he strummed again, as if such a thing was quite normal. Didn’t notice the boy until he began casting his own little shadow over him.
“Ah. You’re new,” was what he said, and his fingers stopped moving, “Don’t remember inviting you.”
The boy suddenly found a fly near his ear and swatted it away. It circled around and went back to parading the man’s shoulders, delving between strands of hair.
“Sorry. Old habit. You’ll find people like me have a bit more of a developed air around them the longer they’ve been here, and I’ve been here, well...for a bit.”
He started strumming again. The boy took to sitting on the ground next to him, going cross legged as he listened to his song for a while. It followed a simple tune, turning into humming, and finally nearly mumbled lyrics.

Candle candle, did you go outside?
My, did you find it alright?
It was cold and windy, fierce and bright.
It was all the things you weren’t ready for.

Little candle, did you go out bright?
I’d like to think you managed.
There wasn’t much to see without you there.
Warming the grass gone so struggled for.

Candle candle, it’s a frozen land.
But I suppose that doesn’t matter to you.
All your life there’s fire and melting wax honey.
Dripping to mix down with the dew.

He stopped when that last moment ended, propping the guitar with an arm as a boundary between him and them until the remnant of the song finally faded.

“Well, you seem confused,” he said, “You’re dead. Deader than disco. I hope at least you aren’t surprised. Are ya?”
The boy shook his head.
“Mhm. Do you think you’re ready to go?’
He thought for a moment. Dead. He didn’t think it was right to be dead this early. But yet again, if this is what death was like, it wasn’t too bad. He wasn’t cold, he wasn’t tired. And for once, he could see the color, albeit unimpressive ones, on the man's countenance. The red in his cheeks, his sweating skin, the almost blackness of his brown, oiled, unkept hair. The tarnished chocolate of his guitar, he would have liked to stare at that color for at least a few more minutes. This question however, felt immediate, and the boy found himself less than hesitantly shaking his head once again.
“Alright then. You got a few options.”
He perched his hand proper on the guitar top before standing up. Two roads formed before him, and as they formed he looked a bit more sullen before swatting at the fly again that buzzed near his ear.
“Seems you really are dead, by the looks of it. Going back isn’t much of an option for you. The two other ones here are,” he pointed to an ashen road that led on ahead into the horizon, “One’s to pass on. It doesn’t look like too much because it isn’t. You’d eventually make that dust bunny over there that you fell into a little bit taller. And the other one here…”
He motioned to a road that gradually increased in color. As the boy looked down it, he began to notice brick etching themselves into the grey matter floor, intertwining with vines. There was the faint smell of grass, and if he had the opportunity to listen closely, the distant ambiance of birds and odd music. Tunes that so disproportionately misaligned with the man’s previous simple hums.
“That other path is something you might be interested in. A gateway to a waiting room of sorts. I made it for souls not yet ready to pass on, and it seems you qualify, even after all this time.”
The boy stared down the two roads. Even at simply looking down the ashen trail, he felt his lips dry as if stricken by a winter wind, numb and unpainful. When he began staring down the other road, the colors seemed to invite him as the vines became green, the bricks growing their dirty clay color. He didn’t notice, but the man was smiling at him as he picked up his guitar, hefting the bulk under his arm.
“Seems you got your place cut out for you then. I don’t blame you,” he said as he made a motion with his free hand. The colorful path before them expanded, transforming into a fully formed trail brimming with color. It almost pained the boy’s eyes to see it, yet he couldn’t find himself willing to blink.
“Just remember, you can always come back. I’ll be here if you want to return, maybe rethink your decision. The souls in there, they tend to forget that. Remind them, would you?”
The boy looked up to thank him, but the light had absorbed his vision.
His feet were planted among the bricks, at the beginning of his pathway to a better home.