How long has it been?


    A second? A millennium? Longer?


    Time no longer exists here. Not in the way I once understood it. Past, present, future—there is no distinction. Everything is now.


    I drift through the abyss, weightless, thoughts unraveling like threads caught in an endless current. There is no body to hold me together, no breath, no heartbeat. I am nothing but awareness, stretched thin across an eternity.


    But even nothingness cannot silence my memories.


    ***


    The visions began the moment I opened my eyes for the first time.


    Before I could speak, before I could even comprehend the world around me, I saw it.


    A black hole.


    It loomed in my mind like a scar across the fabric of reality—swirling, devouring, waiting. I could see the way time fractured around its edges, how it warped space into something incomprehensible.


    No infant should have been able to understand what I was seeing. But I did.


    And I screamed.


    Every night, I would wake in terror, my tiny body convulsing as visions of the abyss clawed their way into my skull. My parents tried everything—lullabies, doctors, prayers—but nothing could shield me from the truth I was born knowing.


    Because it was coming.


    Even then, I knew.


    I don''t remember their faces.


    I should, shouldn''t I? They were my parents, the people who gave me life, who tried to protect me from the horrors lurking in my mind. But their faces are blurred, distorted like figures in a dream that slips away the moment you wake.


    The only thing I remember is the blood.


    It was everywhere.


    The warm, sticky scent of it clung to the air, thick enough to choke on. It pooled across the floor, seeping into the cracks of our old wooden house. It painted the walls in wild, erratic streaks.


    And their bodies…


    Dismembered. Torn apart. Pieces scattered like discarded puzzle fragments, an image that would never fit together again.


    I don''t remember screaming. I don''t remember crying. I just stood there, watching, as if I had already known this would happen.


    Maybe I did.


    Because in my visions, I had seen their deaths before they came to pass. I had seen the shadows creeping at the edges of reality, the inevitable descent into chaos.


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    And I had seen myself standing in the middle of it, untouched.


    ***


    At the orphanage they called me a liar.


    The authorities who found me in that blood-soaked house. The social workers who tried to force emotions I didn''t have. The teachers who whispered about me behind closed doors.


    "He''s disturbed."


    "No trauma response. Not a single tear."


    "He claims to have seen it before it happened. Another pathological liar."


    I didn''t argue. What was the point?


    They wouldn''t believe me. Just like no one ever had.


    So I sat in silence, watching the world move around me, watching the children at the orphanage play their meaningless games. They were normal.


    I wasn''t.


    The visions never stopped.


    And I stopped trying to pretend I was like them.


    It was the doctors who gave me the number 2 years after that day.


    "Patient #326."


    I don''t remember when I stopped thinking of myself as anything else.


    Names have meaning. They tether you to an identity, a history, a person who once existed. But I was never really a person, was I?


    Just a mistake, an anomaly. A living prophecy of the end.


    They studied me like a specimen, documenting my hallucinations, my sleep patterns, my complete lack of human connection.


    "Do you remember your name?" a doctor asked once.


    I stared at him.


    I could have lied. I could have given him something to write down, something to fit into his neat little boxes of psychiatric evaluation.


    But I didn''t.


    Because the truth was simple:


    I didn''t remember.


    ***


    I float. I wait. The infinite void.


    The singularity is ahead, but I have no way of measuring the distance.


    Maybe I''m already inside it. Maybe I''ve already been torn apart.


    But no—I still exist.


    Somehow, some way, I still am.


    I sift through my fragmented thoughts, trying to find myself within them.


    But who am I?


    A child born with knowledge he shouldn''t have. A boy whose parents were erased before his eyes. A ghost who walks through life with no name, no purpose.


    A monster, maybe.


    Because I didn''t cry when they died.


    Because I never feared the black hole.


    Because, deep down, I always knew I belonged to it.


    That''s why I survived when the rest of the world didn''t.


    I was never meant to be part of that world to begin with.


    ***


    Then, something changes. The crushing weight of the abyss, the infinite darkness, the stillness that has held me in its grasp for what feels like eternity—all of it begins to shift. It starts as a pulse. A single, rhythmic beat. Then another. Then a burst.


    Light.


    Blinding, radiant, overwhelming. It erupts from the singularity like a supernova, reversing the endless collapse. Not destruction. Creation. A white hole.


    But this time, it is not just restoring. It is building.


    Through the burning haze, I see worlds. Ten spheres of landmass and sky, each distinct yet eerily connected, shoot outward into the unknown. They are new—freshly woven into existence, their very atoms birthed from the energy of the white hole. But they are not alone. They collide into a vast cosmic plane, where hundreds of other worlds already exist, orbiting like celestial battlegrounds.


    The Tower Realm.


    I don''t know how I know its name. But I do. And I know that I am no longer in the universe I once belonged to. This is something else.


    Then, I see Earth. Not just my home. A new version of it. It materializes within the Tower Realm, seamlessly integrated into the ten newly-born worlds. The land reforms. The cities return. The people breathe again.


    But they remember.


    This is no illusion, no alternate timeline where events were undone. The billions of humans that reappear know what happened. They remember the black hole, the void, the spaghettification. They remember dying.


    And yet, here they are. Alive. Whole. Confused.


    I sense it before I even regain my form. The rules of existence here are different. Gravity is altered. The very air hums with a force beyond human understanding. Magic? Energy? Something else? But more than that, I feel the presence of something watching.


    No. Not something.


    Someone.


    For the first time in what feels like eternity, I exist again. A shape forms around me, familiar yet foreign. My body. My senses. I exhale.


    And then—a voice.


    It doesn''t belong to a person. It doesn''t belong to any living thing.


    It belongs to this place.


    "Welcome to the Tower Realm."