Time is a joke in here.
It could’ve been hours. Could’ve been days. Honestly, it could’ve been the length of one really long, existential blink. No sleep. No food. No ticking clock. Just… thought. And more thought. And, well—me.
I feel like myself. Kind of. I know my thoughts. I recognise my voice in my head. But it’s like someone swapped out the wiring and forgot to label the parts. Everything still works, it’s just—off. I’ve officially decided this is a dream. It’s the only explanation that gives me a sliver of control. I mean, come on. A room with a door made to never be open, no change in light, no natural decay. A bunker built like a metaphor with stage lighting and zero plot development. If this isn’t a dream, then it’s a really aggressive metaphor for being stuck in my own head…which, to be fair, tracks.
I sit near the far wall—again—and pick up a stone. One of many. I toss it at the opposite side of the room. It bounces. Harmless. Another one. A little harder this time. Thunk. “Great,” I mutter. “Solid impact. Zero revelation.” I grab a third. Heavier. There’s something satisfying about the weight in my hand. It’s the most real thing I’ve felt in… however long I’ve been looping in here. This one, I throw like I mean it. The sound is different. Not a bounce. Not a thunk. A crack. A high, splintered noise, like the room just inhaled through its teeth. I freeze. Slowly, carefully, I turn toward the wall where the stone hit. And in the place where there was once just blank concrete— there’s now a thin fracture, glowing faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat behind skin. “…Okay,” I whisper. “That’s new.” The crack shimmers. The wall hums. And the air shifts—not colder, not warmer. Just charged. Like the space is waiting. I take a step toward the crack. Slow. Cautious. Because obviously, if something strange and glowing appears in a bunker you’ve been trapped in for an undefined amount of time, you go touch it. That’s just basic survival instinct.
There’s a sound. Soft. Faint. Like whispers behind a wall, just below the threshold of meaning. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Wouldn’t be the first time lately. I raise my hand. Pause. “Okay,” I mutter, “worst case, it explodes.”
I press a finger to the fracture. Instant heat. Not warm. Scorching. Like I’ve just jabbed it into the sun, or an open wound in reality. I pull back—but not fast enough. A sharp burn shoots through my hand, up my arm, straight into my chest. I stumble, but the wall pulses again— and then everything drops. The room vanishes. The floor, the ceiling, the weight of the air—gone in a blink. For a split second, I feel like I’m falling sideways. Then backward. Then not at all.
The crack widens, just enough for the world to swallow me whole— and I’m gone. Pulled through. Into nothing.
I land hard. feet hitting wet stone, knees bending just in time to keep me from collapsing. This time, I’m fast. Not graceful, but ready. Like my body knew before I did. Something’s wrong. A current runs through me—not emotional, not metaphorical. Electric.
It surges from the base of my spine to the back of my neck, all instinct and animal tension. That primal, split-second flicker between running and freezing. I know this feeling. Not from a dream. From life. The sharp edge of danger. The world holding its breath right before something breaks. I’m not dreaming. Not anymore. If I ever was. Any sarcasm I had left drains from my body like blood from a cut. I can’t even remember how to be funny. My eyes take a second to adjust. The air here is darker, thicker—soaked with salt and storm. I’m standing near water. No—on it. A jagged little island, maybe thirty meters wide, tops. Black stone juts from the ground like broken teeth. The edges are unnatural—too clean to be erosion, too chaotic to be architecture. The sea around me is in a constant state of war. Waves crash from every direction, no rhythm, no pattern. Like the ocean can’t decide what it hates more—the wind or itself. I turn slowly. From this spot, I can see the entire island. There’s no forest, no cover. Just rock, stormlight, and the feeling that something out there knows I’ve arrived. Something catches my eye. Just past the jagged ridge of stone—half-swallowed by shadow—there’s a structure. A small chapel. I almost miss it. Its outline blends so perfectly with the fractured skyline, it could’ve been another broken rock. But it isn’t. It’s too symmetrical. Too still.
First instinct: shelter. I don’t think, I move. Legs kicking into motion before my mind even fully catches up. Each step feels like running underwater. Like the world’s caught in lag. Delayed input. Effort without motion. A full-body 300-ping delay.
But I push through it. I make it to the door—slightly ajar, as if it’s been waiting. I don’t hesitate. I push it open and slip inside, but I don’t close it behind me. Not a chance. No way I’m locking myself in again. No rooms. Not like that first one. The moment I cross the threshold, the air changes.
Still damp. Still cool. But quiet. Like sound decided it wasn’t allowed in here. The interior is brighter than it has any right to be. There’s no fire, no lamps, no visible light source. But I can see. Not clearly—but enough. The shelves are mostly empty. Most of the books are fused into the stone—more part of the architecture than actual objects. Like memories that never wanted to be read again. But one stands out. No glow. No sound. It just… exists.
Unassuming. Bound in a worn black cover, no title, no label, no decoration. But I feel it. Like gravity.
This one.I reach for it, half-expecting it to be stuck like the rest. But it moves. The moment my fingers curl around the spine—the air stops.
A sudden, impossible stillness. No creak, no breath, no hum. Even the storm outside feels like it holds its breath. And from the shadows between two shelves— it steps forward. A figure. Hunched, cloaked in black fabric that trails like dried ink, its edges ragged and shifting slightly even in the absence of wind. The face beneath the hood is pale, impossibly pale, the kind of pale that’s never seen sunlight—maybe never needed to. Old. Not decayed.
Just done. Eyes nearly closed, just the thinnest slits of shadow where pupils might be. Like a grandfatherly version of Death. Not threatening— but definitely not safe. It doesn’t speak. It just watches. And as it does, the book in my hand grows heavier.
My grip tightens.My breath doesn’t return. Not yet. The creature tilts its head—just slightly. And for a moment, I wonder if it was waiting for me. Or if I just woke up something that never stopped watching.
