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Summary
Wilbur Soot is a dead and buried man, and there is nothing that can change that. Not gods, swinging divine judgement loosely from the sky; not a book, leather-bound and with the promise of return; not even simply taking his corpse and shocking it with as much electricity as a simple redstone circuit will give you. Wilbur’s body is being eaten by maggots, he can practically feel them gnawing away at him now, and he is in a place between worlds.
Every whistle of a train gone by is the whisper of a life that he doesn’t get to live – will never get to live. Every turn he makes is greeted by a hulking brick wall, every step he takes is from one sad, grey tile to the next.
This remains the same when he steps off the train and back into harsh, bright existence. Though, not life. Because Wilbur Soot is dead.
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OR: short and shitty oneshot of wilbur thinking he's dead even after revival. yippee!!