On the evening of September 5, 1997, the candlelight flickered against the whitewashed walls of a humble hospice room. Sister Teresa of Calcutta lay motionless, her body frail, her breath a whisper. Around her stood women in veils and tears - daughters of the cloth - frozen by grief. Their Mother was passing, and with her, something sacred.

Then, silence.

But death, as it often is, was not an end. She felt herself rise - not in spirit or rapture, but in a slow, aching dislocation. Her soul peeled away from flesh, and she floated above her body, gazing at the sterile room now made ghostly by her detachment. The air smelled of antiseptic and old incense. A crucifix hung crookedly above the door.

Then came the figure.

It was no bony reaper in black, but a woman - if a woman she could be called. Her face was porcelain, serene yet unreadable. Golden hair spilled past blindfolded eyes, and in her red-painted hand, she held a scythe not of steel, but of soft, shimmering light. Without speaking, she offered her hand.

Together they drifted through a tunnel of neither shadow nor light, until the veil parted to reveal gates of hammered gold. Beyond them spun stars like shattered halos, galaxies curling like sacred script. The skies hummed with hymns of unspoken judgment. Souls - numberless and strange - stood in lines that spiraled like shells, each waiting for the winged orb of flame that presided over the judgment.

Teresa joined them.

She stood among soldiers, lovers, sinners, and saints - each recounting lives like chapters torn from forbidden books. One man, face clean as a boy's, whispered that she had been canonized within a year of her death. Teresa said nothing, only folded her ghostly hands.

The line advanced.

Some were ushered into light. Others screamed as the floor cracked beneath them and they plunged downward. There were pleas. Bargains. Blasphemies. The orb remained silent.

Then, it was her turn.

She stepped forward, eyes closed in trust.

And fell.

There was no sound - only the sensation of heat and depth. Fire licked her soul like a forgotten memory. She screamed - not in fear, but in disbelief. Around her spun the wreckage of saints and sinners, all alike in agony. The flames weren't red. They were blue, holy, and searing. Purification? Punishment? She could not tell.

She landed on stone, black and broken. Her hands - if they could be called that - were charred husks. Her robes had become chains.

She tried to pray.

But her words dissolved in the choking ash.

Above, winged shadows herded the wailing damned onto a boat of bone, ferrying them across a river of molten sorrow. The silence of God was louder than the screams. She boarded, silent. She wept, but her tears turned to steam.

The journey through Hell was not chaos - it was order.

She passed the cyclones of Lust, where those she once ministered to were now entwined in flesh and wind, screaming for touch. She saw Gluttons swimming in bile, feeding on their own bellies. Liars, nailed inside golden coffins, burned from within. In Violence, the angry stabbed shadows that bled truth.

Each sin, a mirror.

Each punishment, a hymn.

At last, the river froze.

The final circle lay silent - burning cold. There, in the heart of all betrayal, sat Lucifer: not horned, not mocking - just still. Encased in ice, his wings shattered, his face mournful. At his feet, Judas, eyes closed against a thousand years of regret.

The angels - no longer angels - lifted Teresa by her shoulders.

Before her, a chalice of blue fire floated.

Into it, she was cast.

The fire did not consume. It remembered. It forced her to feel every prayer whispered for pride. Every touch withheld in the name of purity. Every suffering used as a ladder toward sainthood.

As she writhed, Lucifer finally spoke - not with malice, but with quiet recognition.

"You know why."

And in that moment, Mother Teresa understood:

Holiness is not immunity. And even the purest hands can carry hidden scars.