I lay semi-conscious on the bed in the palliative care unit. My body ached like hell, but I couldn’t speak — one pipe ran through my mouth, another through my nose, and an oxygen mask covered my face. An IV drip was in my wrist, diapers were strapped below, and my skin felt rough and cold.

Apart from the pain, I felt a constant itch and burning sensation, but I couldn’t explain it to anyone. I was trapped, caged inside my own suffering.

My mother caressed my head with tears in her eyes, and I felt a little relief. Her trembling hands moved gently over my body, and with every stroke, I slowly felt better. She couldn’t take my pain away, but her touch made me feel safe, as if some part of me was still whole.

As the pain softened, I drifted into sleep — and in that sleep, I saw a stranger. He was glowing with an immense aura, caressing me gently.

Suddenly, I was free of pain. I felt… amazing. For the first time in two years, I felt light. The heaviness I had carried for so long disappeared. I smiled and thanked the stranger, and he gestured for me to look back.

When I turned, I saw myself lying on the bed, and my family crying outside the oncology unit. It was strange to look at my own body — lifeless, still, but no longer mine.

I realised I was dead. And the stranger was not a stranger, but the angel of death.

But death, I discovered, was not a horrible end — it was a beautiful transition. A shift into the unbound, the limitless, the free. I was excited to tell my parents I was okay.

I turned to the angel and asked him to let them know that I was no longer in pain. He smiled and said, “Okay. Give me some time.”

As my body was brought home and people gathered, many consoled my parents, saying, “She’s finally relieved of all the pain. She must be happier in the lap of God.”

And so I was.

For twelve days, they prayed for my peace and well-being. I watched my family slowly return to their routines. I told the angel to let my mother know she should start her baking again. He nodded.

Just then, my aunt said, “You should restart your baking business,” and my mother softly replied, “Yes… I won’t have anything to do now.”

Looking at my father, I wished I could ease his financial worries. But I knew that with me gone, half of his burdens were already lifted.

On the twelfth day, during the final rituals, my brother promised me in his heart, “I’ll be a good son and take care of our parents.”

What more could I have asked for?

Such peace, such fulfillment. Death, I realised, didn’t bind me — it set me free.