ã€ŠFiction.exeã€‹


 THE MAN IN THE ORANGE CHAIR

    It all began with the hum. A deep, vibrating frequency, like a broken refrigerator humming in a room that''s been abandoned for years. Except the room wasn''t abandoned. The room was my living room, and I had been sitting in it for five hours.

    The man in the orange chair had been sitting there, too.

    He didn''t say anything at first. Not when I walked in. Not when I stared at him. Not when I checked my phone, and there was no signal. Not when the hum started. He just sat there, legs crossed, hands in his lap, looking at the TV that wasn''t turned on. A faint, flickering light danced across his face as if something was on, but I couldn''t see it.

    "Do you want something to drink?" I asked, because what else do you say to the man in the orange chair that''s always been empty?

    He shook his head, still staring ahead, a slight smirk curling the edges of his lips.

    I tried to call someone. My mom, my dad, the pizza place. Nobody picked up. But the hum got louder. It settled into my chest like a second heartbeat. The man in the orange chair didn''t flinch.

    "Do you hear that?" I asked, my voice too loud for the silent room.

    The man blinked slowly, as if considering. Then he looked at me for the first time. His eyes were dark¡ªbottomless¡ªand in that moment, I realized something strange. The orange chair was gone. Or maybe it had never been there. Maybe he had never been there.

    But he was. I knew that much. He was always there.

    "You''ve been waiting," he said finally, his voice like gravel under tires. "For someone to tell you the answer."

    I laughed, but it came out like a hiccup. "What answer?"

    He didn''t laugh. He didn''t move. "You know."

    And here''s the thing: I did know. Somewhere deep inside, beyond all the noise and the distractions, the apps and the messages, the work emails and the half-finished projects, beyond all that garbage¡ªI knew. I didn''t want to know, but there it was. Like a splinter under my skin.

    "You can''t stay here," he said, uncrossing his legs. "They''ll find you."

    I didn''t know who they were, but I could hear them now. Footsteps, growing louder, echoing from nowhere and everywhere. Not footsteps on the floor, but footsteps in the air, in the walls.

    "I don''t understand," I said. But I did. I just didn''t want to.

    The man in the orange chair was silent again. Then he stood up, stretching his arms like he''d been asleep for years. The chair¡ªif it was even still there¡ªmorphed, the orange turning to a fleshy, soft pink. I didn''t like it.

    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    "What happens now?" I asked, feeling my voice stretch too thin, like the air had been sucked out of the room.

    His smirk deepened. "The game''s over. Has been for a while now."

    There was a knock at the door. Not a real knock¡ªmore like a thunderous rattle of bones. A dull thud in the walls.

    "Who''s there?"

    The man shrugged, indifferent. "Them."

    I blinked, and suddenly he was closer, so close I could smell something, like burnt rubber or rain on pavement. His breath against my face, cold as ice. His eyes¡ªblack and endless¡ªlooked through me, past me, into something I couldn''t see. And I saw it in him, too.

    The hum pulsed in my brain, sharper now, drilling into my skull. My teeth felt loose, my eyes ached, but he didn''t care.

    "I''ll go," I said quickly, my voice shaking. "I''ll leave. Just¡ªtell me what''s happening."

    "Doesn''t matter." His smirk faded, and his face turned blank. Hollow. "You''ll forget anyway."

    The door rattled again. Louder. Closer.

    I glanced back, afraid to look away from the man, but more afraid of what was behind me. He was gone now¡ªjust gone. But the chair, the orange chair, was still there, vibrating gently, like it had a heartbeat.

    The walls around me began to bend, like they were made of some kind of melting rubber. The hum turned into a chorus of whispers, thousands of voices talking over each other, too loud to make sense of. The room shrank, and grew, and shrank again. I felt myself shrinking with it.

    I reached for the chair¡ªbecause what else was there? But when my hand touched it, the fabric was wet. Slimy. I jerked back, but my hand was stuck, sinking into the chair, into the fleshy pink that had overtaken it. I pulled, but it swallowed me whole, dragging me down into it, deeper and deeper until the room disappeared.

    All that was left was the hum.

    And then, silence.

    The door opened.

    "Hello?" A voice, familiar, but not mine. The sound of keys on the table.

    Footsteps. Hesitant. Then, the soft hum.

    And there, sitting in the orange chair, was the man again. Or maybe he wasn''t. Maybe I was.

    The door creaked shut.

    They were still out there.

    And I had been waiting.

    For you.

 The Clockmakers District

    The Clockmaker''s District had a way of dulling the senses. Every street was the same: narrow, cobbled, lined with squat, soot-covered buildings that leaned against each other like old men waiting to collapse. The sky, perpetually grey, hung low over the city, casting a permanent shadow on the district''s inhabitants. No one smiled here. No one talked unless they had to. The only sound was the ticking of clocks.

    Henry Dunn, a man of no great importance, lived in a small apartment above a clock repair shop, one of the many in the district. He had worked there for ten years, fixing timepieces with the same mechanical precision that had become the hallmark of his existence. He was good at his work, not because he cared about clocks, but because he had long ago learned that caring was dangerous. It was better to keep his head down, better to blend in, to be part of the ticking machinery that governed their lives.

    The clocks, of course, were everywhere.

    They hung on every wall, stood on every desk, and perched on every shelf. It was said that in the Clockmaker''s District, a person could never be more than ten feet away from a clock. The ticking was constant, inescapable, as if the very air carried the sound of time slipping through their fingers.

    It had not always been like this. Henry could remember, vaguely, a time when the clocks were just tools, objects that people used to manage their day. But that was before the Bureau of Time took over. Before the clocks became law.

    It had been gradual at first, the way these things always are. A few regulations here, a new law there. All for the greater good, they had said. To bring order to the chaos. To keep society running smoothly. People had welcomed it at first. The clocks were synchronized, businesses were required to operate within strict timeframes, and public spaces had to be vacated at precisely appointed hours. It seemed efficient. Rational.

    But then the rules became more stringent. Time slots for everything¡ªwhen to eat, when to sleep, when to work, when to rest. The clocks dictated every movement, every decision. Late by more than a minute, and you''d receive a warning. Repeated offences brought fines, or worse¡ªtime penalties. Those were the worst of all.

    Henry had seen it happen. People who had committed too many infractions¡ªwho had broken the sacred order of time¡ªwould be sentenced to "deductions." The Bureau of Time would take away days, weeks, sometimes even years from their lives. They didn''t explain how it worked, only that it did. A man might walk into a government office one day and leave aged ten years, his youth siphoned away like water from a leaking tap. Those were the lucky ones. Some didn''t survive the process.

    Henry had always been careful to avoid infractions. He wasn''t a brave man, nor a rebellious one. He valued his quiet, orderly life too much for that. But in recent months, he had begun to notice things. Small things, at first¡ªglitches, inconsistencies. A clock running a few seconds fast here, another a minute slow there. At first, he had thought it was just his imagination. After all, clocks could go wrong, even in the district. But it kept happening. And not just with the clocks in his shop, but everywhere.

    One morning, while winding an old grandfather clock, he had noticed it again¡ªa faint, almost imperceptible delay in the ticking. It was subtle, so much so that an ordinary person would never have noticed. But Henry wasn''t ordinary. He had spent years working with clocks, and he knew their rhythms, their patterns. This one was off.

    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    He tested it again. And again.

    The results were the same. The clock was losing time¡ªprecisely two seconds every hour. But that wasn''t possible. Not here, where the Bureau controlled everything, where every second was accounted for, where time itself was supposed to be infallible.

    Henry''s heart raced as he made the calculations. If this clock was losing time, then others could be, too. The entire system could be breaking down, and no one would know. No one would dare question it.

    But Henry knew.

    He tried to ignore it, tried to convince himself that it didn''t matter. But the thought gnawed at him, day and night, like a rat chewing through a wire. What if the Bureau didn''t know? What if the time they were all following¡ªthe time that dictated every aspect of their lives¡ªwas wrong?

    He couldn''t stop himself. Over the next few weeks, he began secretly testing the clocks in the district. Each one told the same story: time was slipping. It was imperceptible now, but it was happening. Seconds were being lost, minutes shaved off. The entire system was unravelling, and no one seemed to notice.

    Finally, one night, Henry decided to report it. He knew the risks¡ªhe had seen what happened to people who questioned the Bureau¡ªbut he couldn''t live with the secret any longer. He penned a letter, carefully detailing his findings, and left it on the doorstep of the local Bureau office.

    Two days later, they came for him.

    The officers were polite, as they always were. They didn''t shout or make a scene. They simply knocked on his door and asked him to come with them. Henry didn''t resist. He had known this would happen, had known from the moment he mailed the letter that his time was up.

    They took him to a small, windowless room deep within the Bureau''s headquarters. A man in a grey suit sat behind a desk, his face calm and expressionless. A single clock ticked softly on the wall behind him.

    "You''ve made an interesting discovery, Mr. Dunn," the man said, his voice smooth and even. "We''ve been aware of these¡­ discrepancies for some time."

    Henry blinked, unsure of what to say. They knew?

    "Time is not as stable as we once believed," the man continued. "But the people don''t need to know that. They need order, predictability. They need the illusion of control."

    "But the clocks¡­" Henry stammered. "They''re wrong. People are living by the wrong time."

    The man smiled, though there was no warmth in it. "Does it matter, Mr. Dunn? If they believe they are living by the right time, then for all intents and purposes, they are. Time is only as real as we make it."

    Henry stared at him, the weight of the truth sinking in like a stone in his chest. It didn''t matter if the clocks were wrong. It didn''t matter if time itself was breaking down. As long as people believed in the system, the system would continue.

    The man stood and walked to the door, his footsteps perfectly synchronized with the ticking clock. "You will continue your work, Mr. Dunn. And you will forget what you''ve discovered. For your own sake."

    Henry nodded, numb. He would continue. He would fix the clocks. He would keep the system running.

    And in the end, perhaps, that was all that mattered. Time might slip away, but the illusion of it would remain.

    And so would he.

 Shellfish Dreams

    I used to think the sea whispered, but now I know it''s the shellfish doing all the talking.

    They cling to rocks, piers, the underbellies of forgotten boats¡ªmumbling secrets from the depths in a language we don''t quite understand. You think they''re just sitting there, doing nothing. But they''re listening.

    Have you ever cracked one open? Felt that strange pause before you eat, like you''ve interrupted something private? That''s because you have. And in that silence, in that tiny, briny moment, they see you. They know you.

    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

    You''ve eaten more than you realize.

 The Drift

    The island was small, barely more than a jagged tooth poking out of the sea, surrounded by endless water that stretched to the horizon, a bruised grey beneath a dull sky. There were five of them left now¡ªDavid, Thomas, Anna, Mark, and Sarah¡ªand they''d stopped talking about rescue weeks ago. Maybe longer. It didn''t matter. No one was coming. They all knew it.

    David sat on the sand, watching the waves roll in, endless and indifferent. The tide had carried in something strange today, a large wooden crate, bobbing in the shallows. It had been drifting closer all morning, turning slowly in the current, teasing them with the promise of something new. Something they could use.

    David didn''t move toward it. He sat and watched, hands resting loosely on his knees, listening to the wind scrape over the rocks behind him. It wasn''t the first time something had washed up¡ªbits of wreckage, plastic bottles, pieces of wood¡ªbut this crate was different. Larger. Sealed.

    Behind him, the others were murmuring, low voices that carried on the breeze, though he couldn''t make out the words. They were watching the crate too. Waiting.

    "I''ll get it," Mark said at last, breaking the silence. He was the tallest, the strongest, always the first to volunteer for things now. He stepped into the water, his feet splashing against the surf as he waded out to meet the crate.

    David turned his head just enough to see Sarah watching from under the shade of a palm tree. Her arms were wrapped around her knees, her face shadowed. Her eyes, though¡ªthey were bright and focused, fixed on Mark''s every move.

    Mark reached the crate and grabbed hold of it, pulling it toward the shore. He grunted with effort, muscles straining under his tanned skin. When the crate scraped against the sand, Anna ran to help, her face flushed with excitement. They wrestled it up onto the beach, and the others gathered around, forming a loose circle.

    David stood, slow and deliberate, his legs stiff. There was no rush. Whatever was in that crate wasn''t going to change things, wasn''t going to fix the world they''d been stranded in. Still, he found himself stepping closer, drawn by the promise of something unknown.

    Mark kicked the crate, testing its strength. "We need something to break it open."

    "I''ll get a rock," Thomas muttered, already searching the ground for something heavy enough to crack the wood. His hands trembled slightly as he picked up a jagged stone, the sharp edge glinting in the pale sunlight.

    David watched him, saw the way his fingers curled around the rock like claws. They hadn''t been eating well. The food supplies had dwindled after the first month, and since then, it had been fruit, fish when they could catch it, and water collected from the rains. But the rains hadn''t come in days.

    The crate could have anything inside it. Food. Medicine. Tools. Or it could be nothing. A cruel joke sent by the same indifferent sea that had swallowed the ship, the sea that watched them starve and fight and grow weaker by the day.

    Thomas smashed the rock against the crate with a loud crack, the wood splintering under the force. The others crowded in closer, their eyes wide, eager. David felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. They hadn''t been this excited in days¡ªthis desperate.

    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    Another swing, and the crate split open with a groan, the wood giving way to reveal its contents. They all leaned forward, their breath held, waiting.

    Inside were cans. Dozens of them, stacked in neat rows, their labels faded and torn but still legible.

    "Beans," Anna whispered, her voice thick with disbelief. "It''s food. Real food."

    For a moment, none of them moved. They just stared at the cans, as if they couldn''t believe what they were seeing. Then Mark reached in, grabbed one, and held it up to the light, his eyes gleaming.

    "We''re saved," he said, grinning.

    But David didn''t smile. He saw the way the others were looking at the crate, at the cans, at each other. He felt the tension building, a quiet pressure beneath the surface of their relief. This wasn''t salvation. It was something else.

    "We have to share it," Sarah said, her voice steady but soft. She was still sitting beneath the palm tree, her gaze shifting between them. "We can ration it out. Make it last."

    David nodded slowly, though he knew it wouldn''t be that simple. Nothing was, not anymore. Hunger did things to people¡ªmade them different. Made them dangerous.

    Mark was already opening one of the cans, his fingers fumbling with the lid. "We''ll share, but let''s eat now. Just a little. We need it."

    David stepped back, letting the others take their fill. They''d been here too long. The island had changed them all, worn them down, stripped away the pieces that made them whole. The lines between them had blurred¡ªfriendship, trust, fear¡ªall tangled together until they were nothing more than a fragile balance, waiting to tip.

    As they ate, greedily shovelling the beans into their mouths, David looked out at the sea again. The waves lapped gently at the shore, soft and eternal, as if mocking their tiny struggles.

    The crate wouldn''t last forever. They all knew that. And when it was empty, when the last can had been cracked open and devoured, they''d be right back where they started. Hungry. Desperate. Alone.

    No one said it, but the thought hung heavy in the air. David could see it in their eyes, feel it in the way they clung to the cans, hoarding each bite like it might be their last.

    The island wasn''t going to save them. The sea wasn''t going to forgive them. They were trapped here, and the worst part wasn''t the hunger or the thirst or the fear of never seeing home again.

    The worst part was that they''d stopped caring.

    The sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting long shadows across the sand. David turned away from the others, from the crate, from the endless sea, and walked toward the rocks at the edge of the island. He could hear them still, behind him, laughing and talking as if they''d found some kind of hope in those metal cans.

    But he knew better.

    There was no escape from the drift.

    The island had them now. And it wasn''t going to let go.

 The Whispering Cavern

    It began as a local legend¡ªjust one of those creepy stories people tell each other to pass the time. There was a cave on the outskirts of town, nestled between jagged cliffs, hidden by overgrown moss and thorny underbrush. The townspeople called it "The Whispering Cavern." No one knew how long it had been there, or how deep it went, but everyone knew the stories.

    They said if you stood at the mouth of the cave at night, you''d hear it whisper your name. Softly at first, like a breeze. But if you stayed too long, the whispers would grow louder, more insistent, until they drowned out your thoughts, luring you inside. And those who entered the cave? They never came back.

    Of course, no one really believed it. Except for Hiroshi.

    Hiroshi had heard the legend his entire life. His grandmother had told him about it when he was a boy. She said his uncle had been one of the people who disappeared. He hadn''t believed her then¡ªjust chalked it up to old family rumours. But when his grandmother died and left him the house near the cliffs, something in him changed. The cave began calling to him. Not in a literal sense at first¡ªjust a pull, a fascination he couldn''t shake.

    Late one night, after a few too many drinks, Hiroshi decided to visit the cave. Just to see. He figured if he could stand at the entrance and hear nothing but the wind, it would finally put his obsession to rest. Armed with only a flashlight and his curiosity, he hiked through the dense forest and found himself at the cave''s mouth.

    The entrance was wide and yawning, like the maw of some ancient, forgotten creature. The wind howled softly through the trees, and in the distance, the ocean waves crashed against the cliffs. Hiroshi stood there, his breath fogging in the cool night air, and listened.

    At first, there was nothing. Just the sound of the wind and his own heartbeat.

    But then, he heard it.

    A whisper.

    It was faint, barely audible over the wind, but it was unmistakable.

    "Hiroshi."

    He froze. His heart skipped a beat. It had to be his imagination, right? The wind playing tricks on him? He strained his ears, listening harder.

    "Hiroshi."

    The whisper came again, clearer this time. It wasn''t the wind. It was a voice. And it was coming from inside the cave.

    Against every rational instinct, Hiroshi stepped closer to the entrance, his flashlight cutting through the darkness. He shined it into the cavern, but the beam barely penetrated the inky blackness. The voice came again, this time from deeper within.

    "Hiroshi. Come."

    His legs moved on their own, as if pulled by some unseen force. He stepped into the cave, his breath catching in his throat as the darkness swallowed him. The air inside was damp and cold, the walls slick with moisture. The ground beneath his feet sloped downward, leading him deeper and deeper into the earth.

    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    The whispers grew louder with each step, but the voice was no longer just calling his name. It was murmuring something else now, too quiet to make out, but insistent. He had to get closer. He had to understand what it was saying.

    The tunnel twisted and turned, narrowing at points, and the further Hiroshi went, the more he realized he was no longer in control. His body moved forward, but his mind screamed at him to stop, to turn back. Yet he couldn''t. The whispers were in his head now, reverberating off the walls of his skull, blending with his thoughts until he couldn''t tell the difference between his own voice and the one calling to him.

    Suddenly, the tunnel opened up into a vast chamber, the ceiling so high it disappeared into darkness. And there, in the centre of the room, was something impossible.

    A giant, grotesque mass of flesh.

    It pulsed and writhed, like a beating heart, but it had no clear form. Just a shifting, undulating pile of mouths¡ªdozens of them, maybe hundreds¡ªeach one moving in unison as it whispered his name.

    Hiroshi''s legs buckled. His flashlight slipped from his grasp and clattered to the ground, the beam flickering wildly as it illuminated the thing in front of him. He wanted to scream, but his throat closed up, his breath caught in terror. The whispers became deafening, each mouth speaking directly into his mind, their words no longer a call, but a demand.

    "Join us."

    From the grotesque pile of mouths, something emerged¡ªa long, thin tendril, slick with mucous and covered in tiny, wriggling teeth. It slithered toward him, wrapping around his ankle with a sickening, wet sound. Hiroshi stumbled back, but it was too late. The tendril tightened its grip and pulled him forward, dragging him toward the mass.

    He clawed at the ground, desperate to escape, but more tendrils shot out, wrapping around his arms, his legs, his neck. They pulled him closer and closer, until he was face-to-face with the thing. The mouths opened wide, revealing rows of jagged, blackened teeth.

    "Join us," they whispered again, their breath hot and foul against his skin.

    And then, with a sudden, violent pull, the tendrils yanked him into the mass. He felt his skin stretch and tear as he was absorbed into the flesh, his bones snapping under the pressure. But the pain was short-lived. Soon, he felt nothing.

    Only silence.

    And then, a whisper.

    From one of the new mouths on the grotesque mass, Hiroshi''s voice joined the chorus.

    "Join us."

 The Drowned City

    There was once a city at the bottom of the ocean, though no one could remember when it had sunk. It had been forgotten by the world above¡ªno maps, no legends. Only those who lived there remembered, and even their memories were starting to blur, like an old photograph left in the rain.

    Lina sat on the edge of what had once been a bridge, her legs dangling over the deep abyss where the city crumbled into the darkness below. The water was thick and heavy around her, pressing against her skin like a blanket that never lifted. It wasn''t uncomfortable, but it wasn''t quite right, either¡ªnothing ever was down here. The light that filtered through the distant surface was dim and sickly green, casting long shadows that twisted and swayed as if they had a life of their own.

    She had forgotten how she got here. Forgotten what the sun looked like. Maybe she had lived up there once¡ªon the surface, where people breathed air instead of water, where the sky was blue and not this eternal, darkened haze. She tried to recall the feeling of sunlight on her skin but came up with nothing. All she had were fragments, like pieces of a dream slipping away the moment you wake.

    The city stretched out before her, vast and broken. Buildings that had once scraped the sky now lay on their sides, half-buried in silt, their windows dark and empty like hollow eyes. Fish swam lazily through the ruins, their scales catching the faint glimmer of light, but there were no other people. Not anymore. She hadn''t seen another person in years¡ªif time even existed here.

    Sometimes, she wondered if she was the only one left. If the others had simply faded away, dissolved into the water like ink bleeding into paper.

    The city sighed with the weight of its age, the sound a low groan carried by the current. Lina closed her eyes and listened to it. The quiet was comforting in its own way, like an old friend who didn''t need to speak to be understood. It was all she had ever known, this silence. It cradled her like a lullaby she couldn''t remember the words to.

    She stood and began to walk, her bare feet sinking into the soft sand that covered the once-bustling streets. There were still traces of life here, though they were faint¡ªan overturned chair, a cracked picture frame, the skeletal remains of a fountain where no water flowed. The city had been beautiful once. It still was, in a way, though the beauty had turned strange and distant, like the reflection of a face seen through murky glass.

    As she wandered, she found herself at the edge of the old park, where the trees had long since petrified into twisted, stone figures. Their branches reached out like hands, grasping at the water above them, forever frozen in the moment of their drowning. Lina touched one of the trunks, her fingers tracing the rough, cold surface. She could almost feel the life it had once held, the pulse of something warm and alive, but it was gone now. Everything was gone.

    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    "Are you lonely?"

    The voice startled her, though it was soft, almost a whisper carried by the current. Lina turned and saw a figure standing near the broken fountain. It was a man, though his face was pale and blurred, as though he had been underwater for too long, his features eroded by time and the sea. His clothes, too, were strange¡ªtattered and floating gently around him, as if they had no weight.

    She hadn''t seen another person in so long that, for a moment, she didn''t know how to respond. Her voice felt foreign in her throat, like she had forgotten how to use it.

    "I don''t know," she said finally, her words sounding small in the vastness of the city. "I think I''ve forgotten how to be lonely."

    The man smiled, though it was a sad, distant thing. "That''s the first thing we lose down here. The memory of what it was like to have others."

    Lina stepped closer, unsure if he was real or just another fragment of the city, another ghost wandering its sunken streets. "Have you been here long?" she asked.

    He laughed softly, the sound barely a ripple in the water. "Long enough to forget why I came."

    They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of the ocean pressing down on them. Lina felt an odd sense of connection with him, though she didn''t know why. Perhaps it was simply the presence of another voice in the quiet. Or perhaps it was something deeper¡ªan unspoken understanding between two people who had been left behind.

    "Do you ever think about leaving?" she asked, though she wasn''t sure where the question had come from.

    The man''s smile faded, and he looked away, toward the distant horizon where the city disappeared into the darkness. "There''s nowhere to go. The surface¡­ it''s too far, too bright. I don''t think we belong there anymore."

    Lina looked up, squinting toward the faint light above. It was so distant, so unreachable, like a star seen through layers of fog. She wondered if she had ever been up there, if she had ever breathed air instead of water. But the memory was gone, washed away by the currents of time.

    "No," she said quietly. "I suppose we don''t."

    Lina felt a strange sense of peace settle over her, though it was tinged with melancholy. There was no escape, no return to whatever life she had long forgotten. But there was a kind of beauty in that, too¡ªin the endless quiet, in the slow decay of the drowned city. She would stay here, with the ruins and the whispers, until she, too, faded away.

    And when that time came, she would be just another piece of the forgotten city, lost to the world above, but not alone.

    Never truly alone.

 Late Night at the End of Everything

    It''s 3:33 AM in a 24-hour diner that shouldn''t exist, sandwiched between a payday loan shop and a pawn store that sells nothing but VHS tapes of static. The neon sign outside flickers violently, the letters spelling out"N!ghtCaf3"blink in and out, and the "3" sometimes looks more like a scythe. Nobody seems to notice.

    Inside, it smells like burnt toast and cheap coffee, the kind that feels like it''s scraped from the bottom of a barrel labelled "For Desperation Only." The booths are made of red vinyl cracked with age, and everything has a thin layer of grease¡ªeverything except the people. The people, if you can even call them that, are different.

    Behind the counter, the cook is a three-eyed man with skin that droops like melted wax. His apron reads,"Kiss the Cook", but there''s something unsettling about the way his third eye tracks every movement in the room. His name tag says "Steve," though no one''s ever asked him about it.

    At one booth, a guy with a VHS player for a head sits alone, rewinding himself over and over. The tape inside keeps sputtering, unable to settle on a moment, forcing him to relive fragmented seconds of existence. He sighs audibly each time it happens, the kind of sigh that makes you think he''s been doing this for centuries. And maybe he has. No one asks him about it either.

    The waitress, a tired woman in her forties who looks more like she''s in her eighties, slides across the floor without actually walking. Her name tag says "Janice," but the way she slinks between tables suggests she''s been around since the dawn of time, or at least since people started pretending they had purpose. She pours coffee into cups that never seem to get empty, no matter how much the patrons drink.

    A man walks in¡ªor, rather, something in the shape of a man. His features are bland, as though someone forgot to finish drawing him. His eyes are two pinholes in an otherwise smooth face, his mouth a crooked slash like a mistake someone made with a pen. He slides into a booth, staring thoughtfully at the laminated menu, which only has one item: "Eggs."

    Janice floats over, her voice a monotone drone. "What''ll it be?"

    "Eggs," says the man-shape, as if he had a choice.

    The cook, Steve, grunts. The sizzling sound from the grill is disturbingly wet, like something alive being seared. The man-shape stares out the window, where there''s nothing but blackness. Not night, just¡­ nothing. The universe outside the diner has collapsed into an abyss, but the lights in here keep flickering, like the diner itself refuses to acknowledge the end of everything.

    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    In the far corner, two shadows sit in another booth, though they have no bodies to cast them. They whisper to each other in incomprehensible tones, their conversation an eerie hum of dread. If you listen too long, you start to hear your own name.

    A payphone rings near the bathroom. It''s been ringing for hours, but no one ever answers it. It keeps getting louder. Somehow, nobody notices except for you, but then, that''s the point, isn''t it? The phone''s ringing for you.

    The man-shape sips his coffee, the black liquid sloshing into his faceless void. "So," he says, as if to no one in particular, "do you think any of this ever mattered?"

    The waitress chuckles¡ªa dry, brittle sound like old bones knocking together. "Matters to who?" she asks, not really expecting an answer.

    The man-shape shrugs. His shoulders slump under the weight of an existential weight too big for his unfinished body to bear. "I used to think it did. Before."

    "Before what?" Janice doesn''t care. She''s heard it all.

    "Before I realized everything''s a rerun. You know? Like I''ve seen this episode a thousand times, but I keep waiting for a twist that''s never coming."

    Steve flips something unidentifiable on the grill. "No twist," he says, his third eye glaring through the haze of greasy air. "Just commercials."

    The man-shape nods as if that explains everything, which, somehow, it does. There''s no grand revelation, no cosmic secret. Just endless reruns, each episode slightly more worn than the last, the same hollow patterns repeating.

    Outside, the abyss presses against the diner''s windows. It wants to come in, wants to eat the stale light, the greasy comfort of this purgatory. But the neon sign buzzes stubbornly, like a bug trapped between two worlds. The end of everything can wait for morning.

    In the corner, the two shadows laugh, though the sound is more like a scream. You get up, reaching for the door. You don''t remember deciding to stand, but now you''re moving, the payphone still ringing, louder and louder, louder than anything should ever be.

    "Hey," says Janice, her hollow eyes fixed on you. "You sure you want to go out there?"

    You freeze, hand on the doorknob. For a second, you''re not sure. The abyss is patient; it''ll wait.

    You glance back at the booth. The man-shape is gone, his cup still full. Steve doesn''t notice. Janice stares at you like she knows exactly what you''re thinking: the door or the diner? Outside, there''s nothing. Inside, at least there''s eggs.

    The phone rings again.

    You stay.

 The Infinite Tuesday

    Todd sat on his couch, staring blankly at the television, where a game show host with a disturbingly wide grin yelled about canned beans like it was a matter of national security. The lights in his apartment flickered, casting a strange shadow that seemed to slither across the walls. He wasn''t sure how long he''d been sitting there¡ªminutes? Hours? Days?

    The clock on the wall said it was Tuesday. Again.

    "Hasn''t it been Tuesday for a while now?" he muttered to no one in particular. His goldfish, Gary, bubbled apathetically in his tank, as if sharing Todd''s indifference to the passage of time, or lack thereof.

    Todd grabbed his phone and checked the date. Tuesday. Scrolled through his texts. All from Tuesday. Checked the weather. It was Tuesday. Everywhere.

    "Maybe I should call someone."

    He thought about calling his mom, but what would he say? Hey, Mom, it''s been Tuesday for three weeks and my TV keeps whispering my name in between commercials. That would go over well. So, instead, he went with Plan B: ignore it and hope it goes away.

    Todd turned off the TV, stood up, and peeked out the window. The street was empty. No cars. No people. Even the local stray cat that usually yowled at 2 a.m. was suspiciously absent. He glanced at the sky. It wasn''t the usual shade of pale blue. No, it was more...off. Like someone had turned the saturation down just a bit too far. A faint hum buzzed in the air, so low it felt like it was vibrating his bones.

    Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Todd froze. It wasn''t a normal knock. It was slow. Deliberate. Like whoever was on the other side had all the time in the world. Which, in this endless Tuesday, they probably did.

    With a deep sigh, Todd shuffled over and opened it. Standing there was a man in a cheap suit, holding a briefcase and grinning ear to ear. But it wasn''t a pleasant grin. It was too wide, too sharp, like his mouth was stretching into something that barely qualified as human.

    "Good afternoon, Mr. Davis," the man said, his voice an unsettling blend of syrupy salesman and malfunctioning text-to-speech program. "I''m here to talk to you about the...situation."

    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

    "Situation?" Todd raised an eyebrow, unsure whether to slam the door or just accept the madness.

    "Yes, the whole ''it''s-always-Tuesday'' thing. Bit of a glitch, really. Cosmic paperwork mix-up." He waved a hand dismissively. "These things happen. Universe is a bureaucratic nightmare, you see."

    Todd blinked, unsure if he was dreaming or just losing his mind. "So... what happens now?"

    The man''s grin widened¡ªsomehow. "Well, you can file a formal complaint, but it''ll take, oh, about fifteen millennia to process." He chuckled. "Or, you can... embrace the Tuesday. Make it your own. Find your meaning in the endless void of sameness."

    "Meaning? In Tuesday?"

    "Exactly!" The man clapped his hands together, startling Todd. "Most people waste their lives waiting for the weekend, but you, my friend, have been given the rarest gift of all: infinite mediocrity! No ups, no downs, just a flat line of pure, undiluted Tuesday. Forever."

    Todd stared blankly at the man. "That''s not a gift. That''s hell."

    The man''s grin faltered for a fraction of a second, and for a moment, his eyes seemed... tired. "Well, yeah," he said, shrugging. "But what isn''t?"

    And with that, the man turned and walked away, vanishing into the weird, desaturated afternoon.

    Todd closed the door, leaned against it, and slid down to the floor. He pulled out his phone again. Still Tuesday.

    He glanced over at Gary, who continued to bubble apathetically in his tank. "So... what now, buddy?"

    Gary didn''t answer. He never did. But for the first time, Todd could have sworn the goldfish was judging him.

    He turned the TV back on. The game show was still going. The host, now even more frantic, screamed about beans like the fate of the universe depended on it. Maybe it did. Todd didn''t know. He didn''t care.

    As the hours ticked by¡ªthough time seemed meaningless¡ªTodd felt a strange sense of calm. Maybe the man was right. Maybe there was some kind of freedom in this endless loop of nothingness. No more expectations, no more pressure to do anything special or be anyone important. Just...

    Tuesday.

 The Night We Watched the Stars

    I don''t know why I think about that night so much. It wasn''t supposed to be special. It wasn''t supposed to be anything, really. Just another Friday. But sometimes the things that aren''t supposed to matter end up being the things that matter the most.

    We were all there¡ªme, Jamie, and Marcus¡ªlying in the grass behind the school like we used to do when we were kids. The air was cool, almost too cool for June, and everything smelled like summer starting. Jamie was flipping through an old comic book she found at Goodwill, and Marcus was half-asleep, his hoodie pulled over his head, blocking out the world. He always liked to do that, like if he could shut out enough noise, he could find peace.

    I didn''t have anything to say, which wasn''t weird. I don''t talk much, not when I don''t have to. But for some reason, that night, I couldn''t stop thinking. Thinking about how everything was changing, and it didn''t feel like I was ready. Jamie was going off to college in a few months. Marcus was joining the Navy. And me? I wasn''t sure what I was doing. It felt like they were all moving on, getting ready for the next part of their lives, and I was stuck in this weird limbo where nothing made sense.

    The stars were out. I remember because Jamie said something about how they looked like a map. Like they were trying to tell us where to go, but we didn''t know how to read it.

    "You ever wonder if we''re just not meant to understand some things?" she asked, her voice quiet. I think she was talking to herself, but I answered anyway.

    "Like what?"

    "Like where we''re supposed to end up. Or who we''re supposed to be. Maybe it''s better not knowing."

    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

    I didn''t say anything. Because the truth is, not knowing scared me. It scared me more than anything. I guess I was afraid of what would happen if I never figured it out. Like, what if I just stayed here, lying in the grass behind the school, waiting for something that would never come?

    Marcus shifted next to me, pulling his hoodie tighter. "I don''t care where I end up," he mumbled, half-asleep. "As long as it''s not here."

    And that hit me harder than it should have. Because "here" was the only place I knew. The only place that felt like home, even though I wasn''t sure if it really was.

    We stayed like that for a while, none of us really talking, just listening to the sound of the wind in the trees and the distant hum of cars from the highway. The kind of quiet that only happens late at night when it feels like the world has stopped for a minute just to let you catch up.

    Eventually, Jamie closed the comic book and stood up, brushing the grass off her jeans. "I think I''m ready," she said, almost to herself. "For whatever''s next."

    And I realized, in that moment, that I wasn''t. I wasn''t ready for her to leave, for Marcus to go, for everything to be different. But I couldn''t say that. So, I just nodded.

    Marcus sat up, yawning. "We should head back," he said, rubbing his eyes. "It''s getting late."

    I don''t know why, but I didn''t want to leave. I didn''t want the night to end. Because I knew, once it did, everything would keep moving forward, and I didn''t know how to hold on to any of it. So I stayed behind, lying there in the grass, watching the stars. Jamie and Marcus walked off together, their voices fading into the dark.

    It was just me now.

    And the thing is, for the first time, that felt okay.

 R.O.B.s Vending Machine

    Jerry had made a mistake. A big one. All he wanted was a soda. That''s it. A nice, cold soda to wash away the taste of disappointment after another long day of doing absolutely nothing with his life. But as he stood in front of the ancient vending machine, tucked away in the farthest corner of the mall''s basement, he realized this was no ordinary vending machine.

    For one, it was humming. And not the normal, reassuring hum of a functioning appliance. No, this was the kind of hum that seemed to vibrate at a frequency designed to irritate the very core of your being, like a mosquito had been hired by the universe to record a mixtape just to mess with your head. Secondly, there was a large, flashing neon sign above it that read: "Insert Coin for Enlightenment."

    "Enlightenment?" Jerry mumbled, squinting at the machine. He checked his pockets. One crumpled dollar bill, two pennies, and a button that had mysteriously appeared out of nowhere. He sighed. No quarters. Obviously.

    The vending machine clicked to life, the neon sign now blinking rapidly, as if it was getting impatient. Beneath it, in faded, almost illegible font, were the words: "Don''t question it. Just press the button. Seriously."

    So, naturally, Jerry questioned it. A lot.

    "What''s in there, huh? A cosmic soda? A bottle of inner peace?" Jerry scoffed, but the machine kept humming, the sign now throbbing with a disconcerting urgency. Fine. Whatever. He pushed the button, fully expecting nothing to happen.

    That''s when the vending machine spoke.

    "SELECT YOUR REALITY."

    Jerry blinked. "Excuse me?"

    The machine didn''t excuse him. Instead, a whirring sound emerged, and the options on the display screen began to scroll by:

    <ol>

    <li>Infinite Puppies, But Everything Smells Like Broccoli</li>

    <li>Your Entire Life Is a Simulation (Free Upgrade to Premium)</li>

    <li>Existential Dread Delivered via Nachos</li>

    <li>The One Where You''re a Crab Now</li>

    <li>Surprise Me!</li>

    </ol>

    Jerry stared at the list. He hesitated, his finger hovering over the buttons. None of these seemed like reasonable choices. But then again, he was standing in the basement of a mall at 3 AM talking to a vending machine about alternate realities, so "reasonable" had kind of gone out the window about five minutes ago.

    "I guess I''ll go with¡­" Jerry trailed off. What was he even doing? This was insane. "I''ll take the Surprise."

    The machine dinged, then made a noise like a cash register eating a bag of rocks. A thin slot opened, and something shot out of it with alarming speed, smacking Jerry in the face.

    Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    He stumbled back, clutching what appeared to be¡­a key? But not just any key¡ªa key made entirely of light. It hummed softly in his palm, pulsing like it had a heartbeat.

    Before Jerry could process any of this, the walls around him flickered. The whole mall basement, the vending machine, everything, melted away like it was a badly coded video game.

    He was floating now. In space. Surrounded by vending machines. Infinite vending machines, stretching out in all directions, each one labelled with weirder and weirder realities:

    <ul>

    <li>You''re a Cucumber, but You Have a 9-to-5 Job</li>

    <li>Everyone You Love is Actually Just Jeff in Disguise</li>

    <li>Reality Doesn''t Exist, Please Try Again Later</li>

    </ul>

    The key in his hand vibrated violently, and before Jerry could even wonder what terrible decision he''d made, a loud voice boomed out from nowhere.

    "CONGRATULATIONS! YOU''VE UNLOCKED THE ''WHATEVER'' REALITY."

    "Uh, what does that mean?" Jerry called out, his voice echoing into the void.

    The booming voice continued: "IN THIS REALITY, EVERYTHING IS EXACTLY THE SAME, BUT EVERYONE¡ªAND I MEAN EVERYONE¡ªIS ALWAYS A LITTLE DISAPPOINTED IN YOU."

    "What?! Wait, no, I¡ª" Jerry tried to protest, but it was too late.

    He blinked, and suddenly he was back in his apartment. His cat was staring at him from the couch, but not in that cute, "I love you because you feed me" kind of way. No, this was a deep, soul-crushing look of vague disappointment.

    Jerry gulped.

    He went outside, hoping things might feel normal. Nope. As he passed his neighbour, Mrs. Jenkins, she gave him a tired sigh, shook her head slowly, and muttered, "Could''ve done better, Jerry."

    Confused, Jerry kept walking. A man on a bicycle glared at him like he''d just kicked a puppy. The barista at the coffee shop frowned when he ordered his usual latte, shaking her head as if she expected more from him. "Really? That''s it?" she asked with a sad, judgmental gaze.

    Even the birds in the sky seemed to chirp with a passive-aggressive tone.

    Jerry sprinted back to the mall. Back to the basement. Back to the vending machine. But it was gone. No sign it had ever been there. Just an empty wall, and a faint, lingering hum that seemed to mock him.

    He stood there, catching his breath, realizing that, from now on, every single person in his life would carry a quiet, unshakable sense that he could be doing a little bit better.

    And the worst part? Deep down, he knew they were right.

 The Last Cicada Song

    The cicadas cried out that summer in a way they hadn''t before. Their relentless, buzzing song filled the air, as if trying to drown out something no one could quite hear. The village lay quiet under the weight of their song, a sleepy place hidden between green hills and rice paddies, where time felt as though it had forgotten to move forward.

    Setsuko watched the sky, her tiny feet dangling off the porch. Her hands, small and delicate, rested on her lap, clutching a faded ribbon that had once been bright red. Her brother, Haruo, sat beside her, his face thin and pale, eyes half-lidded in the midday heat. He hadn''t been able to run as fast lately, and the bright energy that had always danced in his eyes was gone, like the fireflies they used to chase at twilight.

    "Do you think the cicadas are lonely?" Setsuko asked, her voice barely a whisper. The question hung in the heavy air, met with nothing but the endless hum of the cicadas. Haruo didn''t answer right away. His breath came slow, deliberate, as if every inhale took something precious from him.

    "Maybe they''re just trying to be heard," he said after a long silence. "Maybe they''re afraid no one''s listening."

    Setsuko blinked, her heart aching at the words. Haruo had always said strange things like that lately, things that made her feel like something was slipping away, something important. She tightened her grip on the ribbon, the one he had tied in her hair every morning before school, back when the days were filled with laughter and running through the fields without a care. But that was before the sickness came.

    The adults didn''t talk about it much. They would smile gently at Setsuko and say that Haruo needed rest, that he would be fine with time, but she wasn''t a child anymore. Not really. She could see it in her mother''s eyes, the way her smile didn''t quite reach her lips when she stroked Haruo''s hair. She could hear it in the silence at dinner, when only the cicadas dared to speak.

    Setsuko stood, brushing the dust off her worn yukata, and walked toward the garden where the bamboo grew tall and cast long, thin shadows over the ground. She had been afraid of those shadows once. Now they felt comforting, like a cool blanket in the suffocating heat. Haruo didn''t follow her, too weak to stand. His gaze followed her instead, soft but distant, as though he were already far away, somewhere she couldn''t reach.

    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    She knelt by the small stream that trickled through the garden, her reflection shimmering in the water. Her cheeks were round and flushed from the sun, but her eyes were wide and tired. She stared at her reflection for a long time, wondering when she had begun to look so different¡ªso much older. She didn''t want to be older.

    "I''m going to bring you some water," she called to Haruo, not waiting for his reply. Her voice echoed slightly in the empty garden, and she felt foolish for speaking into the quiet. The bamboo rustled gently in the wind, a soft shushing sound, like a mother trying to soothe a crying child.

    But Haruo wasn''t crying. He never did.

    When she returned with the water, he had fallen asleep, his head resting on his folded arms, his breathing shallow but steady. Setsuko knelt beside him, holding the cup, but she didn''t wake him. Instead, she placed it carefully next to him and sat there, watching his chest rise and fall in rhythm with the cicada''s song.

    They used to laugh together, she and Haruo, about the cicadas¡ªhow their buzzing never seemed to stop, how loud they were in the evenings when the sun began to set. They had joked that the cicadas were calling to the moon, begging it to rise so they could finally sleep. Now, she found herself hoping the moon would come sooner, that the night would fall quicker, so Haruo wouldn''t have to feel the heat pressing down on him anymore.

    The day dragged on, the shadows lengthening as the sun sank lower. Setsuko laid her head against her brother''s shoulder, her small body curled up next to his. She didn''t cry. She didn''t know how to, not anymore. Instead, she watched the sky darken, the cicadas'' song slowly fading as the air cooled.

    "Haruo," she whispered, though she knew he couldn''t hear. "Do you think¡­ do you think they''ll still sing for you tomorrow?"

    There was no answer, only the quiet whisper of the wind through the bamboo, and the fading hum of the cicadas as they, too, began to rest.

    The night fell completely then, and the fireflies came, flickering softly around the garden like tiny stars. Setsuko watched them dance in the dark, remembering the nights she and Haruo had spent chasing them, their laughter filling the summer air. But tonight, she didn''t move. She didn''t chase them.

    She just stayed there, her head resting against her brother''s shoulder, as the last cicada sang its final song.

 Ayas Guest

    The house had always been quiet. Not just quiet in the usual way¡ªno, there was something deeper about the silence that filled its narrow hallways. A kind of emptiness that made your skin prickle. Aya never liked coming home to it. She would rush inside, flick on the lights, and turn the TV to the loudest channel, filling the room with noise as if she could chase the silence away.

    But the noise never lasted. Not really. Lately, it felt like the quiet had been creeping back in faster, swallowing the sounds before they could even settle.

    Then, one night, it started.

    It was barely audible at first, just a faint tap-tap-tap beneath her feet. Aya had been sitting at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the TV. The noise made her glance down, but the floor beneath her bare feet was still. She chalked it up to old pipes, the creaking of a house that had stood for over fifty years.

    But then it happened again. The next night. A little louder this time. Tap-tap-tap.

    Aya froze. The sound was unmistakable now. It wasn''t coming from the walls. It was coming from under the floor.

    She knelt down, pressing her ear against the cold, wooden boards. The faint tapping continued, steady, rhythmic, like fingers drumming against the floor just below her. She tried to tell herself it was some animal¡ªrats, maybe. But the pattern was too deliberate, too slow.

    Over the next few nights, the sound grew louder. The tapping was no longer the soft drumming of fingers. It became a scraping noise, like something was being dragged across the floor below her. It started in the middle of the night, waking Aya from uneasy dreams, filling the room with a muffled, grinding sound. She could almost feel the vibrations through her bed frame.

    She told herself she would call someone. An exterminator, a contractor¡ªanyone who could look under the house and tell her what was happening. But the thought of someone else stepping into her home, hearing that sound¡ªit filled her with an inexplicable dread. Like letting someone in would make it real. As long as it was just her, alone with the noise, she could pretend it wasn''t happening.

    One night, the sound changed.

    Aya was lying in bed, her blanket pulled tight around her shoulders, when she heard the usual scraping beneath the floorboards. She clenched her eyes shut, willing herself to sleep. But then, it stopped. The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. She felt her heart pounding in her ears.

    And then¡ªa knock. Three slow, deliberate knocks, coming from directly beneath her bed.

    Aya sat bolt upright, her breath caught in her throat. The knocking was impossibly clear, as though someone was standing right beneath her bed, knocking on the floorboards. She scrambled out of bed, her feet hitting the cold wood. The knocking stopped.

    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    She stood there, trembling, the room heavy with the weight of the silence. She didn''t dare move. She didn''t dare breathe. Her eyes drifted to the floor beneath her bed, and for the first time, she noticed something strange¡ªthe floorboards were slightly raised, as though warped from underneath.

    Aya knelt down slowly, her fingers trembling as she touched the raised board. It wobbled slightly under her touch. The wood was loose.

    She yanked her hand back, her heart racing. She had never noticed it before, but now that she saw it, it felt glaringly obvious. The boards had been disturbed. Recently.

    A sickening realization crept over her. Something had been moving under her house.

    She hesitated for a moment, her mind screaming for her to stop, to leave the house, to never go near the floor again. But she couldn''t leave. Not without knowing.

    Slowly, she wedged her fingers between the loose boards and pried them up. The wood creaked and splintered as she lifted it. Beneath the floorboards was a dark, gaping hole¡ªno crawl space, no foundation, just blackness stretching down into the earth.

    But what caught Aya''s eye wasn''t the hole.

    It was the hand.

    A pale, twisted hand, the fingers unnaturally long, with nails sharp and jagged. The skin looked bloated, like it had been submerged in water for too long. The hand was pressed flat against the underside of the floor, as though it had been trying to push its way up through the wood.

    Aya stumbled backward, her mind blank with terror. The hand didn''t move. It stayed there, perfectly still, as though frozen in time.

    Then¡ªthe knock. Again. Right beneath her.

    This time, it wasn''t just a knock. There was a voice. Soft, barely a whisper, but unmistakable.

    "Let me in."

    Aya''s heart pounded in her chest, her throat dry. She stared at the hand, unable to move, unable to breathe. The voice came again, a sickly sweet tone that sent shivers down her spine.

    "Let me in, Aya."

    The hand twitched.

    Aya screamed, slamming the floorboard back into place, her hands shaking violently. She pressed her weight against it, her mind reeling, tears streaming down her face. The knocking continued, more frantic now, the voice growing louder, more insistent.

    "Don''t go. Let me in. Let me in."

    Aya bolted from the room, out of the house, her feet slapping against the pavement as she ran into the night, the voice still ringing in her ears. Muted footsteps echoed behind her. Insistent. Persistent. She screamed.

    Then she felt something clammy clamp around her ankle, dragging her face first into the asphalt, and back into the¡ª

    Don''t go, Aya.

    Let me in.

 The Marmalade Thief

    Timothy Gribble was a peculiar child. His nose was always buried in a book, his ears always twitching at the slightest mention of mischief, and his eyes forever twinkling with the kind of curiosity that only meant trouble. But the most peculiar thing about Timothy wasn''t the way he liked to climb trees in the dead of night or the way he would sprinkle salt into his little sister''s porridge when she wasn''t looking. No, the most peculiar thing about Timothy Gribble was his obsession with marmalade.

    Now, to most people, marmalade was just a spread¡ªsomething you slathered on toast or a crumpet when breakfast was particularly dull. But to Timothy, marmalade was something else entirely. It was magic. Golden, gooey magic, full of tiny, shimmering bits of orange peel that sparkled like treasure in a jar. He''d sneak spoonfuls of it when his mother wasn''t looking, scooping it up by the mouthful, letting the sweet bitterness slide down his throat like melted sunshine.

    So it wasn''t long before Timothy started noticing a peculiar thing happening in his house.

    It began one morning when he rushed downstairs for breakfast, eager for his first spoonful of marmalade of the day. He pried open the pantry door, and there¡ªon the top shelf where the marmalade was always kept¡ªwas an empty space. The jar was gone. Vanished!

    "Mother!" Timothy cried, his voice filled with indignation. "Where''s the marmalade?"

    His mother, who was busy frying bacon at the stove, didn''t even look up. "There''s none left, Timothy. I used the last of it yesterday."

    Timothy''s heart sank. No marmalade? That was impossible! He distinctly remembered putting a fresh jar in the pantry just last week. He even remembered the satisfying pop the lid had made when he opened it.

    But there was no time to dwell on it. He''d simply have to wait until his mother went shopping again.

    The next morning, Timothy raced downstairs once more, hoping to find the pantry restocked. But to his horror, when he opened the door, the shelf was bare. His mother hadn''t bought any more marmalade.

    "Mother!" Timothy wailed. "Where is the marmalade?"

    His mother sighed. "I didn''t get around to it, dear. You''ll just have to manage without it today."

    Timothy managed without it, though it was a struggle. Every slice of toast felt dry, every breakfast was a shadow of what it could have been.

    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    Days passed, and the marmalade situation didn''t improve. Timothy''s mother kept forgetting to buy more. The pantry remained empty, and Timothy''s desperation grew.

    Until one night, when Timothy heard something strange.

    It was the middle of the night, and the house was quiet. Too quiet. Timothy had always been a light sleeper, and his ears perked up at the faintest of sounds¡ªa soft clink, like the tap of a spoon against glass.

    Timothy crept out of bed, tiptoeing toward the kitchen, his heart pounding in his chest. The sound grew louder as he approached, until he stood just outside the pantry door.

    There it was¡ªa shadow, small and hunched over, rummaging through the shelves.

    Timothy''s mouth went dry. He couldn''t believe his eyes.

    It was a creature¡ªno bigger than a cat, but with long, bony fingers and wiry whiskers sprouting from its face. Its eyes gleamed in the darkness, wide and greedy, and in its hands it held a jar. The last jar of marmalade.

    The creature lifted the jar to its mouth, its tiny tongue flicking out to scoop up a sticky glob of marmalade. It licked its lips, letting out a satisfied hum.

    "That''s my marmalade!" Timothy whispered furiously, stepping into the kitchen. The creature froze, its eyes snapping toward Timothy. For a moment, neither of them moved.

    Then, quick as a flash, the creature bolted for the window, still clutching the jar. Timothy chased after it, but the creature was too fast, leaping through the open window and disappearing into the night, leaving behind nothing but a faint whiff of oranges.

    The next morning, Timothy told his mother everything, but she just smiled and patted his head. "What a vivid imagination you have, Timothy! A marmalade thief! How delightful."

    But Timothy knew the truth. Somewhere out there, in the deep corners of the night, that marmalade-loving creature was waiting. Waiting for the next time a fresh jar appeared on the pantry shelf.

    And Timothy Gribble wasn''t about to let that happen again. Not without a fight.

    From then on, Timothy kept a watchful eye on the pantry. Every night, he would sit by the door, spoon in hand, ready to catch the marmalade thief in the act. But the creature never returned.

    At least, not yet.

    And Timothy Gribble never stopped dreaming of marmalade.

 "Operation Comprehension"

    Major Harrigan had been thinking about quitting his job for years, but he never could find a good enough reason to do so. Of course, he had dozens of bad reasons. There was the paperwork, the bureaucratic nonsense, the pointless meetings, the endless stream of demands from people who barely understood what his job was, and the gnawing suspicion that absolutely nothing he did mattered in the grand scheme of things.

    But those reasons weren''t good enough. After all, if he left, what would he do? Nothing made sense in civilian life either. At least in the military, the absurdity was organized. Predictable, even.

    He sat at his desk in the base''s operations room, staring at the large map of some distant territory marked with strategic zones and key points of interest. The map was irrelevant. They''d been ordered to protect some godforsaken valley that no one cared about. Except the brass, of course. The brass cared deeply. But Harrigan had stopped trying to figure out why.

    A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Captain Niles entered, his face the perfect embodiment of a man permanently confused by the very nature of existence.

    "Major, got a new directive from Command," Niles said, holding a folder out as if it might explode.

    "Another one?" Harrigan sighed, taking the folder with the enthusiasm of a man accepting his own death sentence. "What''s it about this time? More patrols to protect goats from insurgents?"

    "No, sir, it''s...well, it''s something about ''increasing operational comprehension.''"

    Harrigan blinked. "Increasing what?"

    "Comprehension, sir," Niles repeated. "They want us to increase it."

    Harrigan stared at Niles, then down at the folder, and back at Niles again. "And what the hell does that mean?"

    Niles shrugged helplessly. "I don''t know, sir. But it''s a direct order."

    Harrigan flipped open the folder and skimmed the memo. It was filled with jargon and phrases that sounded important but meant nothing. Words like synergy, efficiency realignment, and objective recalibration. There was no mention of what exactly they were supposed to comprehend more of, or how they were meant to go about increasing this comprehension. Just the vague demand to do so.

    "Well, Niles, looks like we''ve hit a new low," Harrigan said, tossing the folder onto his desk. "They''ve finally figured out how to give us orders without telling us what they are."

    Niles nodded solemnly. "Shall I pass this down the chain, sir?"

    "Absolutely," Harrigan said. "In fact, send it to every department. Let them know we''re increasing comprehension. Whatever the hell that means."

    <hr>

    Two weeks later, the base was in chaos. Every unit had interpreted the directive in a completely different way. The intelligence section decided to compile an endless series of incomprehensible reports, each one more obtuse than the last, hoping to drown the enemy in paperwork. Logistics had started ordering random supplies in bulk¡ªpallets of nails, cases of powdered eggs, and barrels of shoe polish¡ªassuming that a greater understanding of material needs was the key to success. The motor pool began tearing apart trucks and putting them back together, convinced that this mechanical deconstruction would lead to enlightenment.

    Harrigan watched it all unfold with a growing sense of detachment, as if he were observing a tragicomic play where the characters didn''t realize they were stuck in a farce.

    "Niles," Harrigan said one day as they stood outside, watching the men of Alpha Company attempt to dig trenches in the wrong direction, "remind me again why we''re doing this."

    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there."To increase comprehension, sir."

    Harrigan took a long drag on his cigarette, then flicked it into the dirt. "That''s what I thought."

    <hr>

    A month into the operation, a general from Command arrived at the base for an inspection. General Prichard was the kind of officer who wore his medals like a man trying to convince himself of his own significance. His face was perpetually set in a grimace, as though the entire world offended him by continuing to exist.

    Harrigan stood at attention as Prichard strolled through the camp, nodding approvingly at the various activities taking place.

    "Major Harrigan," the general said, stopping in front of him. "I understand you''ve been tasked with a very important operation here."

    "Yes, sir," Harrigan replied, fighting the urge to sigh. "We''ve been working hard to¡­ increase operational comprehension."

    Prichard beamed. "Excellent. And how''s that going?"

    Harrigan hesitated, glancing around at the chaos that had engulfed his base. One of the men from Bravo Company was currently using a jackhammer on a rock, for reasons that no one had quite figured out yet. A group of engineers was arguing over the correct way to assemble a bridge, despite the fact that there was no river anywhere nearby. Someone had started a small fire for reasons that probably made sense to them at the time.

    "It''s¡­going, sir," Harrigan said, his voice dry as the desert air.

    The general nodded sagely. "Good. Good. You know, comprehension is the key to victory. If we understand what we''re doing, then the enemy won''t stand a chance."

    Harrigan stared at the general, wondering if perhaps he was the one who didn''t understand anything at all.

    "Yes, sir," Harrigan replied with a stiff salute. "We''re making great progress."

    As Prichard turned and continued his inspection, Harrigan lit another cigarette, wondering just how long it would take for someone to figure out that none of this made sense. Or if they ever would.

    <hr>

    The operation to increase comprehension dragged on for months, long after any sane person would have realized it was pointless. Every day brought new absurdities. Men were rotated in and out of the base, each unit adopting their own interpretation of the directive, leading to an ever-growing web of nonsensical actions that no one bothered to question.

    One evening, Harrigan sat in his office, staring at the latest report from the intelligence section. It was 47 pages long and filled with detailed analysis of enemy troop movements, except there were no enemies anywhere near their position. The data had been fabricated to justify the report''s existence.

    Niles entered the room, looking as bewildered as always.

    "Major," he said, "I just got word from Command. They''ve issued a new directive."

    Harrigan raised an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? What now?"

    Niles handed him a new folder. Harrigan opened it, skimming the first page. Then he closed it again, leaned back in his chair, and laughed. He laughed so hard that tears came to his eyes.

    "Sir?" Niles asked, confused.

    "They want us to¡­ increase cooperation now," Harrigan wheezed between fits of laughter. "Apparently, we''ve been comprehending too much and not cooperating enough!"

    Niles blinked, unsure whether to laugh or cry. He settled on staring blankly into the middle distance.

    "Cooperation," Harrigan muttered, shaking his head. "I don''t even know what that means anymore."

    And so it went. The war dragged on, fueled by a series of meaningless directives and absurd objectives. The men continued to dig trenches that led nowhere, build bridges over nothing, and comprehend things that no one could ever understand.

    And somewhere, in some office far away, a general smiled to himself, confident that they were winning.

 The Enthusiast

    I had never really understood love, or at least not the way other people talked about it. I knew the mechanics of it, of course. The way it was supposed to start with an attraction, a meeting, then bloom into something deeper¡ªa connection that transcended the banalities of everyday life. That''s what everyone said. That''s what books and movies insisted. But to me, love always felt like a club I wasn''t allowed to join. I would watch people talking about their relationships, their breakups, their passionate highs and devastating lows, and I''d nod along as if I knew what any of it felt like.

    I didn''t.

    My most serious relationship had been with a girl named Maya, who I met during a particularly tedious anthropology course in my second year of college. We bonded over our mutual disdain for the professor, who, in our minds, spent too much time talking about his pet theories on early human migration patterns and not enough on anything remotely interesting. We started going to a caf¨¦ after class, where we would sit for hours and talk about nothing at all. We weren''t so much drawn to each other as we were to the idea of having someone to talk to about how much we hated our lives.

    After a while, it seemed like we were together. Not because we were in love, but because it was the logical next step after weeks of talking. It felt as though dating was something we both assumed was a natural progression, like buying a microwave when you move into a new apartment. We never discussed it, but one day I was at her place, and she was making pasta, and I realized that I hadn''t gone home in two days. She handed me a fork, and that was that.

    Of course, it didn''t last. Maya eventually decided she needed something more "passionate." That''s the word she used. I think she wanted a relationship with more arguments, more fiery declarations of love, more of the push and pull that other couples seemed to thrive on. She wanted me to care more, to want her more, to feel something other than the strange comfort of cohabitation.

    I couldn''t give her that.

    "I just don''t think you''re really... here," she said one night, standing in the doorway of her apartment, arms crossed as though she were cold. "It''s like you''re waiting for something better, but you don''t even know what it is."

    I didn''t disagree. I had never been good at pretending to care about things I didn''t care about.

    <hr>

    After Maya, I went through a series of half-hearted attempts at dating. Apps, mostly. Swiping left and right, staring at profile pictures and wondering how people decided what to put in their bios. I''d meet someone for drinks, we''d exchange a few lines of dialogue, and by the end of the night, I''d have already forgotten what their voice sounded like.

    I found it comforting, in a way, how easy it was to drift in and out of these interactions without leaving any lasting mark on the world. Each date felt like an experiment, a chance to see how little of myself I could reveal while still appearing to be an actual human being. It was amazing how far you could get on a few well-timed smiles and nods.

    Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.One night, after a particularly lackluster evening with someone whose name I couldn''t remember even while we were still talking, I got a text from an old friend, Claire. She was in town and wanted to meet up. I hadn''t seen her in years, but we had once been close in that way that people are when they don''t know what else to do with their time.

    When I got to the bar, Claire was already seated in a booth, a glass of wine in front of her. She looked almost exactly the same as she had in college, except her hair was shorter now, and she wore glasses that made her look more serious than she actually was.

    "Long time," she said, smiling in that way people do when they''re not sure if you''ll still be the same person.

    "Yeah," I said, sliding into the booth across from her. "You look... adult."

    "So do you," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Kind of."

    We spent the next hour talking about our lives in that perfunctory way people do when they''ve been apart for too long to really reconnect. She told me about her job in publishing, about how she still read my old short stories from college and thought I should go back to writing. I laughed and told her I hadn''t written anything in years. She made a face, like I''d confessed to some moral failing.

    "So, are you seeing anyone?" she asked, her tone casual but with the undercurrent of genuine curiosity.

    "Not really," I said. "I''ve tried, but... I don''t know. It never seems to work out."

    Claire nodded, taking a sip of her wine. "Yeah, I get that. It''s hard to find someone who gets it, you know?"

    I didn''t, but I nodded anyway.

    "I don''t think love is what people say it is," Claire continued, leaning back in the booth. "Like, everyone talks about it like it''s supposed to be this grand thing that changes your life, but most of the time it''s just... maintenance. Like keeping a plant alive."

    "Or buying a microwave," I added, remembering Maya and the night she handed me that fork.

    Claire laughed, the kind of laugh that made me feel like I''d just made a real point, even if I hadn''t. "Exactly. You get a microwave because you need one. You don''t write poems about it."

    "Maybe we should," I said, mostly as a joke, but partly because it felt like the kind of thing people might actually do.

    Claire smiled again, but there was something in her eyes that made me wonder if she was thinking about the same thing I was¡ªabout how life, and love, and everything in between felt like it was always just out of reach. Like we were always waiting for something to make sense, but it never did.

    We left the bar a few hours later, after a few more drinks and a lot more small talk. I walked her to her car, and as she was about to get in, she turned to me and said, "You know, I always thought you''d end up with someone who understood you."

    I wanted to ask her what she meant by that, but she was already closing the door, waving as she drove off into the night.

    I stood there for a minute, hands in my pockets, staring after her taillights. I wondered if she was right, if there was someone out there who could understand me, and if that''s what love was supposed to be.

    Then I shrugged and walked home, the cold air biting at my face, and I decided it didn''t really matter.

    I had a microwave, after all.

 The Fall of the Yellow House

    I lived in the yellow house for three years before I even noticed it was yellow. It wasn''t really the kind of thing I would normally overlook¡ªcolours, that is¡ªbut the paint was so faded, so worn by the salty air that rolled in from the bay, that it had become the same washed-out beige as every other sad house on Dunham Street. Most days I barely noticed the house at all. It was just there, waiting for me to come back to it, to sleep, to smoke, to exist.

    I''d found the place in a crumpled newspaper ad three summers ago, when my life had, predictably, fallen apart again. Some "perfect storm" of bad decisions and bad luck, or maybe just an extension of the same shit that had been happening since I was twenty-two. Doesn''t matter. The ad said "Charming Cottage for Rent¡ª$500/month, utilities included," and that was enough for me.

    The landlord, Jerry, was some guy in his sixties with sagging jowls and a t-shirt that said "I''d Rather Be Fishing." He didn''t give a shit about references or a credit check. When I asked about signing a lease, he looked at me like I''d just asked him to name his favourite Warhol painting.

    "You got cash?" he''d asked.

    I had cash.

    The house wasn''t charming. Not even close. It was sinking into the ground at an alarming rate, the wood warping and splitting in places that seemed like a health code violation. There was mould, black in some places, green in others. But it was a roof over my head, which was all I needed. Jerry didn''t check in, didn''t care if I smoked inside or left dirty dishes piled in the sink for weeks. It was perfect in that way.

    The first year passed in a blur. I had a job at a grocery store that was dull and repetitive, but it was a paycheck. I''d wake up late, stumble out of bed with the taste of last night''s vodka still sour on my tongue, and drag myself into work. Then I''d come home, chain-smoke a pack of American Spirits on the porch, watch the cars roll by, and wait for whatever was supposed to happen next. Nothing ever did.

    Then one day, about two years in, the neighbor''s kid came by. I didn''t even know there were kids in the neighbourhood¡ªnever saw them, never heard them. But there she was, standing in front of my porch with a dirty t-shirt and an expression that said she''d rather be anywhere else.

    "You live in the yellow house?" she asked, squinting up at me.

    "What?" I said, even though I''d heard her. I just wasn''t sure how to respond.

    "The yellow house," she repeated, like I was some kind of idiot. "That''s what we call it."

    I glanced back at the house. It wasn''t yellow, not really. But I guess it had been once.

    "Yeah, I guess so," I said.

    The kid stared at me for a while, like she was waiting for something. When I didn''t give it to her, she shrugged and wandered off down the street, kicking rocks as she went.

    After that, the yellow house started to bother me. I''d sit on the porch and stare at it, as if it might explain itself. Why yellow? Why anything? It didn''t feel like my house, not in the way a place usually does when you''ve lived there for years. It felt like a room I was passing through. Temporary. Like a hotel you stay at for too long.

    That was when I started having the dreams.

    They weren''t the kind of dreams that made sense¡ªnot that dreams ever really do¡ªbut these were different. In one of them, I was walking through the house, but everything was wet. The floors, the walls, even the air. I could hear dripping, but there was no source. It was just coming from everything, seeping out of the house like it was trying to drown me. I woke up gasping, the taste of mildew sharp in my throat.

    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    In another dream, I was sitting on the porch, but the street was gone. There was just this endless field of overgrown grass stretching out in front of me, swaying in the wind. It wasn''t peaceful. It was like the grass was hungry, reaching toward me, trying to pull me in.

    I started sleeping less after that. The house felt like it was pushing me out, rejecting me, or maybe I was rejecting it. Either way, it didn''t matter. I had nowhere else to go. So I stayed.

    And then the smell started.

    At first, I thought maybe it was something in the walls, something dead and rotting in the crawl space. But I couldn''t find anything, no matter how much I searched. I tore the place apart. Then I thought maybe it was coming from me. That I had absorbed the house, its rot, its decay. I scrubbed my skin raw, used half a bottle of bleach in the shower, but it didn''t help.

    The smell wasn''t coming from me. It was coming from the house itself.

    I started keeping the windows open all the time, even when it rained. The breeze seemed to help a little, though the rain made the wood swell up even worse than before. The floorboards started creaking under my weight in a way that sounded like moaning, like the house was in pain.

    One night, after another round of vodka and cigarettes, I decided to confront Jerry. I hadn''t seen him in months, but I knew where he lived¡ªjust down the road, past the rusty mailbox with his name on it. I figured he could at least tell me what the hell was wrong with the place. Maybe it was sinking into a swamp, or maybe it was full of asbestos. I didn''t care anymore. I just wanted answers.

    I walked to his place, the air thick with the kind of humidity that makes everything smell like wet dirt. When I knocked on the door, no one answered. I knocked again, harder this time, and the door swung open on its own.

    Jerry''s house was just as bad as mine, if not worse. It reeked of damp wood and cigarettes, the wallpaper peeling off in strips. But there was something else, too. Something I couldn''t quite place at first. Then I saw it.

    Jerry was slumped in an old recliner, his head lolled back, his mouth open. He looked like he''d been dead for days. Maybe weeks.

    The house had eaten him.

    That''s the only way I can describe it. His skin was sunken, almost paper-thin, and the colour of the walls seemed to be bleeding into him, or maybe the other way around. His fingers were stained with nicotine, but they looked fused to the armrests, like the chair had grown into him, or him into it.

    I didn''t stay long. I didn''t call anyone. I just left, went back to the yellow house, and locked the door behind me.

    That was two weeks ago. Since then, the smell has gotten worse. The walls have started to sag, and the floors creak even when I''m not walking on them. At night, I hear things moving under the house. Scratching, crawling.

    I don''t dream anymore. At least, I don''t think I do. When I close my eyes, I just see the yellow. That same faded, washed-out yellow that used to cover the house. It fills my vision, suffocates me.

    I think the house is dying. And it''s taking me with it.

    Maybe that''s what happens here. The yellow house. It doesn''t just rot. It swallows you whole, piece by piece, until there''s nothing left but the smell.

    I''ll leave soon, I tell myself.

    But I won''t.

 The New You

    It started with a flyer slipped through my door. Glossy paper, pristine font, and the kind of minimalist design that immediately screamed, "expensive, but worth it." On the front, in bold black letters: The New You Is Just One Click Away.

    I should''ve thrown it out. But I didn''t.

    I was sitting at my desk, staring at my reflection in the laptop screen as the page loaded. My face looked tired, older than thirty-three. I''d spent the last hour scrolling through everyone else''s lives on social media, and somehow, without realizing it, had convinced myself that this flyer¡ªthis thing¡ªmight be the answer. Maybe it was the lighting or the way the reflection warped slightly on the screen, but I looked ¡­ wrong. Sagging. Out of place in a world that had moved on.

    The site popped up, sleek and clean like the flyer. "Redefine Yourself" was written across the top in thin letters. Below that, a button: "Begin Your Journey."

    I clicked.

    It started innocuously enough. Questions. Simple ones. Name, age, location. Then more personal: What do you want to change? When did you last feel satisfied with yourself? Do you ever wonder what life would be like if you could just be someone else?

    I hesitated at that one. I don''t know why. Everyone wonders that, don''t they? I filled it in anyway. All the time.

    The next question was more unnerving: Do you trust us? It sat there, bold and accusatory. Like it was judging me. Testing me.

    I hovered over the box, trying to ignore the anxious buzz in my chest, and typed "Yes."

    Within moments, the site responded with a congratulatory message. "Congratulations, you''re a perfect candidate for our program! We''ll handle the rest."

    There was no more information, no contract to sign, no payment plan. It felt like a scam, but that creeping curiosity¡ªthe part of me that was sick of feeling hollow, unsatisfied¡ªmade me linger. I closed the browser and went to bed.

    The next morning, I woke up different.

    I don''t mean different like a fresh haircut or a new pair of shoes. I mean different. When I looked in the mirror, I saw myself, but I wasn''t me. My face was ¡­ sharper. Younger, somehow. My eyes were clearer, like I''d had ten hours of sleep when I knew I''d only had five. My skin was smoother. More symmetrical. Subtle, but there.

    At first, I thought it was a trick of the light. Maybe I was just imagining it. But when I went out that day, people treated me differently. The barista smiled at me like I was someone important. A guy on the subway gave up his seat without a word. My boss, who usually barely acknowledged my existence, asked if I wanted to grab lunch. It was a small shift, but undeniable.

    I couldn''t stop thinking about the website. It hadn''t asked me for money. It hadn''t explained what it was going to do. It just ¡­ did it.

    Days passed, and the changes kept coming. Subtle at first, barely noticeable. My posture improved. My voice was clearer, more confident. My inbox filled with social invites, people I hadn''t spoken to in years suddenly wanting to reconnect. I wasn''t just part of the background anymore¡ªI was there, in a way I hadn''t been before.

    Then the physical changes began.

    I woke up one morning and my hair was thicker. I''d been balding slowly since my late twenties, but now it was like I''d never lost a strand. My jawline was sharper, the bags under my eyes were gone. It wasn''t just aging in reverse¡ªit was like the program knew exactly what I wanted, what I needed to be the best version of myself, and it was giving it to me, piece by piece.

    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    People noticed. Friends, coworkers, strangers on the street¡ªthey all noticed. Some were subtle about it, others outright asked me what I was doing, if I''d had surgery, if I was on some kind of miracle drug. I didn''t know what to tell them.

    Every day, I checked the site. But there were no new messages, no updates. Just the same clean interface and the words "We''ll handle the rest."

    A few months in, I hit a snag. I was brushing my teeth one morning when I noticed something. My teeth were whiter, straighter. Perfect, like they''d been digitally retouched. But as I looked closer, I realized they didn''t feel like my teeth anymore. They were too smooth, too uniform, like they''d been replaced overnight. I ran my tongue over them, and a cold, foreign sensation crept through my jaw.

    Then, one day, I found a scar. A small, faint line behind my ear, barely visible. Like an incision that had healed long ago. But I''d never had surgery. At least, not that I could remember.

    I went back to the website, desperate for answers. But when I tried to log in, the site was gone. The URL didn''t exist anymore. No trace of it. Not in my history, not in my bookmarks. Like it had never been there at all.

    I started to panic. Tried calling my doctor, but when they ran tests, they said I was in perfect health. Too perfect. They marvelled at my bone density, my heart rate, my cholesterol levels. It was like I''d become an optimized version of a human being. But the changes kept coming.

    I woke up one morning to find my reflection staring back at me with a face that wasn''t quite mine anymore. My eyes were larger, more symmetrical. My skin, flawless to the point of looking unnatural, like porcelain. I barely recognized myself.

    People still treated me like I was perfect, like I was something to admire. But it felt wrong now. Like I was wearing someone else''s skin, like I''d been moulded into this thing that everyone wanted, but no one knew.

    A month later, I stopped sleeping. It wasn''t that I didn''t want to¡ªit was that I couldn''t. My body didn''t need it anymore. I''d lie in bed, staring at the ceiling for hours, wide awake, wondering when the next change would come.

    That''s when the glitches started.

    Sometimes, I''d catch my reflection lagging, just for a second. My face would freeze in the mirror, my smile stuck, like a bad video feed. My body moved fine, but my reflection stayed still, out of sync. Other times, I''d hear voices, faint and mechanical, like an old radio transmission breaking through static.

    The worst part? No one else seemed to notice. Not my friends, not my family. To them, I was perfect. Flawless. Exactly what I''d always wanted to be.

    But it wasn''t me anymore.

    I tried everything. I deleted my social media, cut myself off from everyone, hoping to break whatever connection had been made. But it didn''t matter. The changes kept coming. I could feel it now¡ªthe presence inside me, growing, replacing me bit by bit.

    I wasn''t the same person anymore.

    I didn''t just want to be someone else.

    I was someone else.

 The Art of Passing Through

    I met Mia on a Tuesday. It wasn''t a particularly remarkable Tuesday, as far as Tuesdays go, which is to say it felt like any other day trying to decide whether it was worth caring about. I was sitting on a bench by the fountain in front of the library, watching the water do what water does, and she just appeared, like a character who''s been there all along but only now walks onstage.

    "Got a light?" she asked, holding up a cigarette that hung loosely between her fingers.

    I didn''t smoke, never have, but I had a lighter in my pocket. I carried it around mostly for the same reason I carried a notebook: it made me feel like the kind of person who would, you know, be worth writing about. So, I handed her the lighter and watched as she cupped her hand around the cigarette and flicked it to life.

    "Thanks," she said, leaning back and exhaling a thin ribbon of smoke into the air. She had this calm about her, like she''d seen through the punchline of life''s joke and decided it wasn''t worth laughing at.

    "No problem," I said, because what else do you say to a stranger who materializes beside you on a grey Tuesday?

    We didn''t talk much at first. Just sat there while the afternoon pressed on, an agreement of silence stretched between us. It was strange, though, how easy that quiet felt. With other people, silence was heavy, something to be filled in before it got awkward. But with Mia, it was like the silence was the thing itself, the conversation we were having.

    Eventually, she stood up, took one last drag from her cigarette, and crushed it beneath her heel.

    "You gonna be here tomorrow?" she asked.

    "I don''t know," I said, honestly.

    "Cool," she said, like my uncertainty was the best answer I could''ve given. Then she walked away, disappearing into the city like smoke carried off by a breeze.

    <hr>

    I didn''t think I''d see her again. Mia didn''t seem like the kind of person who belonged to places. But she showed up the next day. And the next. Every day after that, she''d find me on the bench, smoking her cigarette and watching the world move.

    We talked more, slowly, like peeling off the layers of an onion. She''d tell me about the people she noticed ¡ª the guy who always came by with a newspaper tucked under his arm but never read it, or the woman who wore sunglasses even when it rained. "Everyone''s hiding something," she said once. "Even if it''s nothing."

    She never talked about herself, though. Not in the way that mattered. I only knew the broad strokes: she was seventeen, went to a high school across town, and she had a dog she never walked because "he''s more of an existential companion than a pet."

    And me? I didn''t talk about myself much either. I liked Mia better for not knowing me, for the way she didn''t ask questions that made me confront how little sense I made. With her, I could be just a person on a bench, watching the world move.

    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    <hr>

    One day, I asked, "Where do you go when you''re not here?"

    She looked at me, cigarette perched on her lips. "Nowhere special," she said, like that explained everything. I wanted to ask more, but something about the way she said it made me think that ''nowhere'' was where she''d rather stay.

    <hr>

    Then, one day, Mia didn''t show up.

    It was a Wednesday. The sky was heavy with rain that never fell, and the world felt dimmer without her there. I stayed on the bench for hours, watching the fountain, waiting for her to materialize again. But she didn''t.

    For weeks, I kept coming back. The same bench. The same waiting. But it wasn''t the same anymore, because she wasn''t there, and suddenly, the silence between me and the world felt unbearable.

    <hr>

    It wasn''t until a month later that I found out what happened. I ran into her at a coffee shop across town. She was sitting alone at a table by the window, staring out at the street like she was searching for something she couldn''t name.

    I almost didn''t recognize her without the cigarette, without that distance she always carried. But it was her.

    "Mia?"

    She blinked, surprised, like she wasn''t expecting anyone to know her name. "Oh. Hey," she said, her voice flat, like she wasn''t sure if she should be happy or sad to see me.

    "Where''ve you been?" I asked, though I already knew the answer wasn''t going to satisfy me.

    She shrugged. "Nowhere special."

    I sat down across from her. "You just disappeared."

    "Yeah," she said, looking down at her coffee. "I tend to do that."

    For a moment, neither of us said anything. The rain finally started outside, tapping against the window in soft, steady rhythms.

    "Did you miss me?" she asked, not in a way that sounded like she actually cared about the answer.

    I didn''t know how to answer. I wanted to say yes, but the truth was, I missed the idea of her more than anything. I missed the way she made the ordinary seem like it had a secret hiding beneath it. But that wasn''t her fault. It was mine.

    "I don''t know," I said, honest as I could be.

    She smiled, just a little. "That''s okay. Neither do I."

    <hr>

    We didn''t talk long that day. And after that, I didn''t see her again. I kept going to the bench by the fountain for a while, but it never felt the same. Eventually, I stopped going altogether.

    But sometimes, when I''m sitting alone, I think about her. Mia. The girl who taught me the art of passing through. The one who never stayed long enough to be held onto.

    Some people are like that. They''re the spaces between things, the pauses that let you breathe, the fleeting moments that make you realize you''re alive ¡ª even if just for a second.

 The Myth of Progress

    Humans have always been storytellers. Our capacity to imagine, to construct and believe in fictions, is perhaps the most distinctive feature of our species. Lions and chimpanzees do not invent stories about the past, nor do they hold complex hopes for the future. But from the moment Homo sapiens stood upright, we began weaving narratives to make sense of a world that otherwise defied comprehension.

    For most of our history, these stories centred on gods, spirits, and forces beyond our control. We told ourselves that the rain came because the gods willed it. Disease was a punishment for sin, and our survival was dependent on appeasing divine powers. But the story that changed everything¡ªthe story that ushered in the age of science, capitalism, and industrial power¡ªwas the myth of progress.

    Progress is not a fact of nature. The universe has no inherent direction or goal, and yet over the past few centuries, humans have convinced themselves that history is moving forward toward something better. We believe that each generation will live longer, richer, and healthier lives than the last. In doing so, we constructed a new religion: faith in human mastery over the world.

    This myth, like all myths, has some basis in reality. Human beings have achieved remarkable things. We split the atom, eradicated diseases, and connected the globe in ways that would have been unimaginable just a few generations ago. Indeed, from one perspective, the march of history appears to be one of steady progress: longer life expectancy, greater wealth, and a staggering increase in technological power.

    But progress is not inevitable, nor is it free from cost. The Industrial Revolution made us wealthier, but it also unleashed the catastrophic environmental destruction we are grappling with today. The digital revolution has connected us, but it has also exposed us to unprecedented levels of surveillance, manipulation, and distraction. Every new advancement creates new dilemmas, new forms of suffering, and new existential risks.

    Consider the rise of artificial intelligence. For millennia, intelligence was the most distinctive advantage humans had over other animals. Now, for the first time in history, we are building machines that may soon surpass us in cognitive ability. Proponents argue that AI will revolutionize medicine, transport, and industry, creating a utopia where disease, poverty, and even death are things of the past. Yet, there is no guarantee that such a future will materialize.

    If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    What if AI does not create a paradise, but instead exacerbates inequality and concentrates power in the hands of a few corporations or governments? What if, rather than freeing us, AI locks us into systems of control that reduce human autonomy? And what if, in seeking to perfect our world through technology, we end up dismantling the very foundations of what it means to be human?

    The myth of progress also blinds us to the precariousness of our situation. We assume that because our civilization has achieved so much in the past, it will continue to do so indefinitely. But history shows that complex societies can collapse as quickly as they rise. The Roman Empire was one of the most advanced civilizations of its time, yet it fell into chaos within a few short centuries. The same could happen to us, particularly as we push the planet''s ecological systems to the brink of collapse.

    We must remember that Homo sapiens is not exempt from the laws of nature. The same biological and ecological forces that shaped us are still at work. Progress, in any form, is a fragile and fleeting construct. We can never assume it will continue without effort or that it will lead to outcomes we desire.

    So where does this leave us? Should we abandon our belief in progress and return to a world of superstition and fatalism? Of course not. But we must be honest about the nature of the stories we tell ourselves. We must recognize that progress is not an eternal truth but a story we have invented to give ourselves purpose.

    In the end, our survival may depend not on whether we continue to advance, but on whether we learn to balance our ambitions with the limits imposed by the natural world. As our power grows, so too must our humility, for the greatest danger facing humanity today is not that we will fail to progress, but that we will progress beyond our capacity to control it.

    And as we navigate the future, we must ask ourselves: Can we find meaning in the world not because we are its masters, but because we are its caretakers?

 The Last Summer of the Cicadas

    It was the summer when everything hummed, when the air itself seemed alive, buzzing with the breath of unseen wings. A million cicadas climbed out of the earth, split their delicate shells, and screamed their way into the hot, beating heart of July.

    I was twelve, old enough to know better, young enough to still wonder. Billy and I spent the days wandering from one sun-drenched corner of town to the next, our shirts sticking to our backs, our hair damp with the sweat of endless afternoons. It was the kind of summer that felt like it would last forever, though we knew somewhere deep down it wouldn''t.

    "Do you think they feel it?" Billy asked one day, squinting up into the trees where the cicadas clung, their bodies vibrating with the rhythm of life. "Do they know it''s their last summer?"

    I shrugged, kicking a pebble down the cracked sidewalk. "I guess they don''t think about it. They''re just...doing what they do."

    Billy nodded, though I could see in his eyes he wasn''t satisfied. He always wanted answers I didn''t have, answers that were too big for me to carry, much less understand.

    The cicadas were everywhere that summer. They filled the air with their song, that relentless, rising crescendo that started slow, building up like a whisper growing into a shout, only to fade away into the thick, lazy heat of the afternoon. It was a sound that sank into your bones, the kind of sound that made you feel like something was happening, even when nothing was.

    We wandered out past the town limits, toward the old quarry where nobody went anymore except for kids like us, with time to kill and secrets to uncover. The place felt ancient, older than any town or tree. Billy said it was cursed, and I didn''t argue, even though I didn''t believe in curses. Not exactly, anyway.

    We stood on the edge of the quarry, peering down into the dark, still water. It was deeper than it looked, and no one knew what was at the bottom anymore. Just lost things, probably. Things people didn''t want to think about.

    "Hey," Billy said, turning to me, his eyes wide with that wild look he got sometimes when he had an idea that was both terrible and irresistible. "I bet no one''s ever touched the bottom."

    "Probably not," I said, though the thought of diving into that cold, black water made my stomach twist.

    Billy took a step closer to the edge, looking down, his face a mask of curiosity and fear.

    "Don''t," I said, grabbing his arm before he could take another step. "It''s not worth it."

    He looked at me, and for a moment, I thought he''d argue, thought he''d laugh and shake me off. But instead, he stepped back, just an inch, and I let go of his arm.

    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    We sat there for a while, listening to the cicadas scream. I wanted to ask him why he always needed to go farther, always needed to find the edge of things. But I didn''t. Maybe because I already knew the answer. Maybe because I felt it too, sometimes, when the quiet got too loud.

    The days stretched on, one after another, each one a little hotter, a little heavier, like the summer was winding itself up for something we couldn''t see coming. The cicadas kept singing, louder and louder, as if they knew their time was running out and they had to fill the air with their song before it was too late.

    Then, one morning, Billy didn''t come by. I waited for him on the front steps, the way I always did, but the sun climbed higher and higher and still no sign of him. I wandered over to his house, kicking the familiar path, my heart thudding with something I didn''t want to name.

    Billy''s mom was on the porch when I got there, her hands twisting a dish towel. She didn''t say much, just that Billy wasn''t feeling well, that maybe it was the heat, or maybe just one of those things that happens when you''ve been out too long in the sun.

    I went home, but nothing felt right. The air felt thicker, the cicadas louder, their song less like music and more like a warning.

    The next day was the same. Billy didn''t come by. His mom said he was still resting, and I knew enough not to ask too many questions. But the knot in my chest got tighter, and the world seemed a little dimmer without him there, without his questions that I could never answer.

    And then, just like that, the cicadas stopped. One morning, I woke up and the air was still. No hum, no whir, no sound at all except the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze. It was as if they''d never been there at all.

    I went to Billy''s house, and this time his mom didn''t come to the door. The curtains were drawn, and everything felt closed, like a chapter in a book you''d never get to finish.

    I sat on the steps for a long time, waiting. But the cicadas were gone, and so was Billy.

    Years later, when the cicadas came back, I thought about that summer, about the quarry and the questions we never got to answer. And I wondered, not for the first time, if maybe Billy was right, if maybe the cicadas knew. Maybe, in their final days, they felt the weight of time pressing down on them, felt the world closing in. Maybe they sang so loud not because they were living, but because they knew what was coming.

    And maybe, just maybe, we all do.

 The Weight of Shadows

    It was late, and the city was shrouded in a thick, oppressive darkness. The kind of night that seeps into a man''s bones, not because of the cold but because of the unyielding weight of it all. Mikhail Ivanovich trudged through the empty streets, his footsteps echoing off the narrow, crooked walls, though he barely noticed them. He was thinking of the letter. That wretched, damning letter.

    He had found it that afternoon, tucked between old receipts and forgotten bills on his desk, as if it had always been there, hiding in plain sight, waiting for him to discover it. At first, he had laughed. A bitter, hollow laugh, for what else could one do when confronted with such a revelation? But the laughter had died as quickly as it came, and all that remained was the creeping sensation of something terrible unfurling in his chest.

    The letter, written in that familiar, delicate hand, told him everything. More than he wanted to know. More than he could bear to know.

    "Dearest Mikhail," it began, though he had long ceased to be dear to her. He knew that now. The words swam before his eyes as he had read it over and over, each sentence a sharp, precise cut, leaving him bleeding and yet unable to stop reading.

    "I cannot continue in this life we''ve made," she wrote, her tone almost tender in its cruelty. "I must leave. I must, for my own sake, for my own soul, if there is anything left of it." And then came the admission¡ªan affair, of course, for what else could it be? Not just an affair, but an entire life she had lived outside their shared one. A life more real, more vivid, more alive than anything they had together.

    The confession had rattled him, but it was the final words that twisted the knife: "You never knew me, Mikhail. You never cared to. And now, it is too late."

    Too late. Yes, perhaps it was. He stumbled now through the streets, the letter crumpled in his pocket, its words still gnawing at his mind like a slow, festering infection.

    How had it come to this? He was not a fool, though he supposed it was foolishness that had brought him here. Not the foolishness of ignorance, no¡ªbut the greater, more terrible foolishness of indifference. He had seen it, of course, the gradual drifting, the late nights, the vacant look in her eyes when she spoke of their life together. He had seen it, but had done nothing. He had assumed it would pass, that she, like him, had accepted the quiet suffocation of marriage, the inevitability of decay. That was life, after all, was it not? One does not live with fire forever; one learns to live in the ashes.

    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

    He had never imagined that she might long for more.

    He stopped now, realizing he had wandered to the edge of the city, where the buildings leaned toward one another like old men in a whispered argument. The streetlamps flickered weakly, casting long, jagged shadows that seemed to swallow the path ahead. He stood there for a long time, feeling the weight of those shadows pressing in on him, as though the night itself was closing in, suffocating him with its silence.

    She was gone. Truly gone. Not just from him, but from the life they had built. And for what? Some meaningless affair, some fleeting passion? Or perhaps not fleeting at all¡ªperhaps it was he who was fleeting, an afterthought in the great narrative of her life. A minor character whose part had been played long ago, forgotten in the folds of a story she no longer wished to tell.

    And what was he left with? Nothing but the quiet, gnawing knowledge of his own inadequacy. He had failed, not as a husband, but as a man. He had failed to see her, to understand her, to truly know her. He had built his life on a foundation of assumptions¡ªassumptions that she was content, that she needed nothing more than what he could offer, that they were destined to suffer together, as all people must.

    But no. She had refused the suffering. She had chosen escape, chosen a life beyond him. And now, he was left here, alone in the dark, the weight of it all pressing down on him like the crushing hand of fate.

    Mikhail Ivanovich stood there, staring into the void, feeling the weight of his own shadow stretch out before him. What now? What was there left to do? Go home to an empty apartment, to a bed that would forever feel too large, too cold? To a life that now seemed as hollow as the echo of his own footsteps?

    Perhaps, he thought, there was nothing left. Perhaps this was all there ever was¡ªa long, slow descent into the dark, into the silence, into the unbearable realization that in the end, we are all strangers to one another, stumbling through our own private shadows, never truly seen, never truly known.

    With that thought, he turned and walked into the night, feeling its cold embrace tighten around him, though he did not resist it.

 The Sun Above the Sand

    I woke that morning with the sun already high in the sky, burning through the thin curtains of my small apartment. The heat pressed down on me, a suffocating reminder that the day would be long and unchanging. I had no particular reason to get out of bed, but I did, as if on instinct, performing the motions of living without thinking too much about them.

    Outside, the streets of Algiers were empty, bleached by the unrelenting sunlight. The world felt distant, unreal. It was as if I were moving through a landscape that belonged to someone else. The same caf¨¦, the same dust on the road, the same worn faces of the people who passed by me with blank, expressionless eyes. Life in this city was always like that¡ªeach day indistinguishable from the last, weighed down by the same emptiness.

    At the caf¨¦, I ordered a coffee and sat by the window, staring out at the sea in the distance. The horizon stretched out, endless and indifferent. I often came here to pass the time, though I wasn''t sure if it made any difference whether I sat here or in my apartment. Still, it felt better to be out in the world, even if that world seemed to mock me with its silence.

    It was in this numb haze of routine that I received the news: my mother had died.

    The telegram was brief, no more than a few cold words announcing her death and the time of her burial. Tomorrow. I read it twice, then folded it neatly and placed it in my pocket. I finished my coffee and paid the bill. There was no particular emotion, no great sorrow or shock. Just the quiet, practical acknowledgement that I would have to take the bus to the home where she had spent her last years, where I had placed her because it seemed easier than having her live with me. I never visited often. I suppose I hadn''t seen the point.

    The funeral was hot, suffocating. The sun burned my skin as we stood by the graveside, the priest droning on with words that sounded empty to me. The others in the procession wept quietly, and I watched them with a strange detachment. I felt like I should have cried, but I didn''t. Instead, I stared at the sky, at the blazing sun above, and the sweat dripped from my forehead, stinging my eyes. The heat was unbearable. That was all I could think of¡ªhow hot it was.

    Afterward, I returned to my life. Nothing had changed, not really. My mother was gone, and yet her absence felt no different from the distance that had always been there when she was alive. It wasn''t that I didn''t care¡ªit was that I didn''t know what to care about. The world moved on, as it always did, indifferent to the small dramas of human life.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    A few days later, I ran into Raymond. He was an acquaintance, not quite a friend, though we spoke from time to time. He told me he had trouble with a woman he had been seeing, that she was causing him grief. He asked for my help, and I agreed without thinking. It didn''t matter much to me. One way or another, life was always filled with pointless complications. What difference did it make if I helped him or not?

    It was through Raymond that I met the Arab. He was her brother, I think. The details are vague now. We were at the beach that day, Raymond and I, along with a few others. The sun was bright, so bright that everything seemed to blur at the edges. I felt dizzy from the heat, the sand burning beneath my feet. We saw the Arab by the water, and Raymond started toward him. I followed, out of a kind of inertia, though I didn''t really care what happened next.

    There was a struggle, but I don''t remember it clearly. I remember Raymond shouting, the glint of a knife in the sun, and then the Arab was gone, leaving us alone on the beach, surrounded by the stillness of the sea. Raymond was bleeding, but not badly. He wanted to go back, but I lingered.

    The sun was unbearable. It pressed down on me like a weight, blinding me, suffocating me. I wandered toward the water, the world swimming in the heat, the sweat dripping down my back. And then I saw him again¡ªthe Arab, standing near the rocks, the knife flashing in the sun.

    I don''t know why I did it. The gun was in my hand, Raymond''s gun, and before I could think, I fired. The sound of the shot echoed in the air, shattering the silence. The Arab fell, and everything was still again, except for the sun, still burning above us.

    There was no reason for it, no logic. Just the sun, the heat, and the weight of the day pressing down on me. It could have been anyone; it could have been no one. It didn''t matter. Nothing mattered. As I stood there, the gun still hot in my hand, I fired again, and again, as if trying to silence the unbearable brightness of the sky. But the sun didn''t care. It kept shining, indifferent as always.

    Later, they would call it murder. They would ask why I did it, try to find a reason, a motive. But there was none. I had no answers for them, only the memory of that endless, blinding sun, and the heat that made everything meaningless. In the end, I suppose, that''s all there is¡ªthe sun, the sand, and the silence that waits for us all.

 16th, Sept. 1996

    There existed an amusement park that seemed to defy all logic. It was called The Jade Park, a sprawling, absurdly sprawling entity that stretched infinitely in all directions. There was nothing jade about it. It was the kind of place where the laws of physics seemed to take a vacation and every ride and attraction was more an existential puzzle than mere entertainment.

    One foggy twilight, a man named Walter stumbled into the park. He had no memory of how he had arrived or why he had chosen to enter. He only knew that he felt an overwhelming sense of boredom and malaise. His shoes crunched on the gravel path, which seemed to shift underfoot like sand. The fog rolled thickly, obscuring the park''s rides and attractions, making them appear as ghostly silhouettes.

    Walter''s first encounter was with a roller coaster that snaked into the sky and then inexplicably tunnelled underground. It was called the "Eternal Loop." Curious and desperate for some distraction, Walter boarded the ride. As the coaster climbed, he noticed that the scenery changed in bizarre ways¡ªclouds turned into giant floating eyes, and trees morphed into clock faces whose hands spun erratically. The ride never seemed to end, spiralling endlessly through scenes of surreal and darkly humorous tableaux.

    When he disembarked, Walter found himself at a carousel with horses that had human heads. They greeted him with eerily cheerful smiles and nonsensical greetings. One horse, wearing a top hat, said, "Welcome to the existential conundrum! Choose wisely, for every ride is a reflection of your innermost fears."

    Ignoring the absurdity, Walter took a seat on one of the horses. The carousel spun and spun, faster and faster, until everything blurred into a dizzying maelstrom of colours and sounds. When it finally stopped, Walter was back at the starting point, but now everything seemed slightly different¡ªmore muted, as if the colours had been drained from the world.

    Walter continued his journey through the park, encountering a haunted house where ghosts were too busy arguing over the nature of their own existence to frighten anyone. There was a hall of mirrors that reflected not his image but his fears and regrets. Each reflection was a different version of himself¡ªone stuck in perpetual adolescence, another trapped in endless, meaningless office work.

    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    In one corner of the park, Walter stumbled upon a bizarre vending machine. Instead of snacks, it dispensed small, absurdly profound messages like "The void is not empty; it is merely full of echoes" and "Happiness is a warm illusion." Walter tried to get something more tangible, like a snack, but the machine only offered cryptic wisdom.

    As Walter wandered, the fog thickened and the park began to shift. The rides, attractions, and paths warped and twisted, creating a labyrinthine maze with no discernible exit. The park seemed to mock him with its endless, looping paths and bizarre attractions. It was as if the park itself was a metaphor for his own existence¡ªan endless, incomprehensible journey with no clear purpose or resolution.

    Eventually, Walter found himself in a small, empty clearing. At its centre was a lone bench, and on it sat a figure dressed in an old-fashioned carnival barker''s outfit. The figure held a sign that read, "This is the end. Or is it?"

    Walter sat on the bench, feeling an inexplicable sense of calm. The figure smiled and said, "You''ve seen the park''s reflection of your fears and desires. What now?"

    Walter looked around at the surreal landscape, the rides that looped endlessly, and the fog that enveloped everything. In that moment, he understood that the park''s absurdity and endlessness were not to be feared but embraced. It was a reflection of life itself¡ªfull of bewildering twists and turns, humorous contradictions, and the endless search for meaning in a world that offered none. The park, in all its madness, had revealed to him that the journey, with all its absurdities, was the true essence of existence.

    And so, Walter sat on the bench, the fog rolling around him, and accepted the endless amusement park as a metaphor for his own life¡ªa place where every experience was a reflection of his own existential quest, an amusement park of the soul that would never truly end.

 The Perfect Distance

    It was a little after three when Liz Daniels spotted the man again. Same long trench coat, same dark fedora pulled low over his forehead. He was standing across the street from the cafe, as he had been for the past few days, a small island of calm in the bustling crowd. It was impossible not to notice him, even though he tried to blend in. His stillness was what gave him away, as if he was waiting for something¡ªor someone.

    Liz sipped her coffee, her eyes flicking back to the book she had open in front of her. She was only pretending to read now. In the glass reflection of the cafe''s window, she could see him perfectly. He hadn''t moved an inch.

    She''d first noticed him on Wednesday. He had been outside the gallery then, standing just across from the entrance. Liz had been with George at the time, and she remembered laughing at something, feeling George''s hand on her back, warm and possessive. The man had been watching them, though she hadn''t been sure at first. People watched people all the time in this city. But something about the way he stared, unblinking, almost hungry, had left her feeling uneasy.

    Since then, she''d spotted him nearly every day. Always at a distance, never approaching. Just watching. And always alone.

    George hadn''t believed her. "You''re imagining it, Liz. Paranoid, probably. You need to stop reading those crime novels."

    Maybe he was right. Maybe it was nothing. But she couldn''t shake the feeling that there was something more to it. She closed her book, folding her hands in her lap. She could feel her pulse quicken, her heartbeat strangely loud in the quiet cafe.

    The man hadn''t moved.

    She looked down at the half-eaten croissant on her plate, suddenly losing her appetite. Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for her cup again, holding it close to her lips. Why hadn''t he approached her? Why hadn''t he done anything? If he meant her harm, wouldn''t he have tried by now?

    Unless he was waiting for the right moment.

    Liz''s stomach twisted at the thought. Maybe it was just some harmless obsession, some lonely stranger who had fixated on her for no particular reason. She had a way of attracting those types, George said. She seemed fragile, approachable, like someone who wouldn''t make a scene. But she was stronger than she looked, sharper than people thought. She had made it this far in life without needing to rely on anyone but herself, despite what George liked to believe.

    Still, there was something unnerving about the man''s persistence.

    Liz glanced at her watch. Quarter past three. George wouldn''t be home until six. He had some meeting in the city, one of those dinners with clients that always dragged on too long. She had planned to spend the afternoon working on her own, maybe finish that piece she''d been sketching out, but now she couldn''t concentrate. The man was still there, standing as though he had all the time in the world.

    What did he want?

    Without thinking, she pushed back her chair and stood. She wasn''t the type to run, not anymore. Running solved nothing. If anything, it gave people the wrong idea. She had spent too much time running in her early years, always trying to escape something. But not now.

    She gathered her coat from the back of the chair and stepped outside. The air was sharp with the scent of rain that hadn''t quite arrived yet, a low mist hanging over the sidewalks. She walked slowly, deliberately, feeling the cool metal of her house keys in her pocket, running her thumb over the ridges.

    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    The man hadn''t moved, but his eyes tracked her as she crossed the street. His face was half-hidden beneath the shadow of his hat, but she could feel his gaze. It sent a chill through her that she didn''t want to acknowledge.

    She stopped a few feet from him, keeping a safe distance, enough that she could still walk away if need be.

    "Who are you?" she asked, her voice steady. "Why are you following me?"

    He tilted his head slightly, as if her question amused him. For a moment, he didn''t respond, just stood there with that faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, square envelope. White. Crisp. He held it out to her, wordlessly.

    Liz didn''t move. Her instincts screamed at her to turn and leave, to walk away from this strange interaction and forget she had ever seen him. But something stopped her. Curiosity, perhaps, or something darker. She stepped forward and took the envelope from his outstretched hand, her fingers brushing his for the briefest moment.

    The touch was cold.

    She glanced down at the envelope. There was no name, no address, just a simple fold, sealed tightly. She looked up at him, but the man had already turned, walking away without another word. Within seconds, he had disappeared into the crowd, as if he had never been there at all.

    Liz stared at the envelope for a long moment before slipping it into her coat pocket. She wouldn''t open it here, not now. She didn''t want to see what was inside, not until she was alone. There was no rush. Whatever it was, it could wait.

    As she turned to head back to her apartment, her mind whirled with possibilities. It could be anything¡ªa threat, a message, some kind of puzzle. She didn''t know what game this man was playing, but she had the distinct feeling that she was now a part of it.

    And for the first time in weeks, Liz felt something other than fear.

    <hr>

    When she arrived home, the apartment was as she had left it. The air was stale, the faint smell of paint and charcoal still lingering from her last project. She tossed her coat over the back of a chair and took the envelope out of her pocket, placing it on the kitchen table.

    For a long time, she stared at it, trying to decide what to do. The temptation to rip it open was strong, but there was something about the weight of it, the way it sat so perfectly still, that made her hesitate.

    Finally, she slid a knife under the seal and pulled out the single piece of paper inside. Her hands were steady as she unfolded it, her eyes scanning the short, neat handwriting.

    "I know what you did."

    That was all it said.

    Liz felt her heart stop, then start again with a sickening thud. Her breath caught in her throat as she read the words again, trying to make sense of them.

    It couldn''t be possible. No one knew. Not even George.

    She stood there, frozen, the paper trembling in her hands. The walls of the apartment seemed to close in around her, and for the first time in years, she felt the creeping edge of panic.

    Outside, the rain began to fall.

 The In-Between

    I woke up today without a name. At least, without one that felt like mine. It happens sometimes. You lie there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the world to remember who you are. But nothing clicks into place, so you get up anyway. You move through the motions of your body¡ªfeet on the floor, legs carrying you to the sink¡ªbut none of it feels right.

    I washed my face, the water too cold, too sharp, and looked at the woman in the mirror. She was someone I recognized but couldn''t quite place. Her hair was tangled from sleep, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, lips slightly chapped. She looked like she had a life, probably a normal one, but it wasn''t mine.

    I stared at her until she blinked, then walked out of the bathroom.

    The coffee machine broke three days ago. I''ve been drinking tea ever since, pretending it''s what I wanted. I don''t think I''ve ever wanted tea, not really. But you do these things, don''t you? You make these small adjustments when the world tilts in some imperceptible way. You live in the crack between what you need and what you have.

    The kettle screamed, and I poured the water over the limp bag of leaves, watching it steep into something bitter.

    I sat down at the kitchen table, waiting for a memory of myself to return. Sometimes it does, usually in fragments¡ªa moment from when I was seven, sitting in the back of my parents'' car, the windows fogging up from the rain. Or when I was twenty-four, in the middle of a crowded bar, too loud and bright, but still, I laughed like I had something to laugh about.

    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    Today, nothing came.

    The phone rang, sharp and sudden. I answered it because that''s what you do when things ring.

    "Are you okay?" It was Sarah''s voice. She called me every morning, like she had for years, checking in as if we hadn''t been doing this for long enough to know how little it changed anything.

    "I''m fine," I said. My voice sounded distant, like it was coming from someone else''s mouth.

    "Don''t lie," she said, but there was a softness in it. She didn''t push. She knew that sometimes all I could do was exist. She''d stopped asking the bigger questions a long time ago.

    "I''m drinking tea," I told her, as if that explained everything.

    There was a pause. "It''s going to be okay, you know."

    I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe that there was a version of me out there¡ªsomewhere in the future or maybe the past¡ªwho was whole, who wasn''t always slipping out of herself like an old sweater. But I''d learned not to expect too much from belief.

    "I know," I said. We both knew I didn''t.

    After the call, I sat there, holding the teacup. It was still too hot to drink, so I just cradled it, letting the warmth seep into my fingers. I wanted to pour it out, watch the water swirl down the drain, but I didn''t move. It was easier to stay still, to let the day stretch ahead of me like an empty room I couldn''t walk out of.

    Outside, a dog barked. The sound was sharp, jarring, like it was calling me back to something, though I wasn''t sure what.

    I wondered how long it would take to remember my name today.

 Tangled

    I''ve been watching you. Don''t worry, it''s not creepy, not the way you''d think, because we''re already connected. You don''t know it yet, but we''re meant for each other, you and I. I''m just ahead of the curve. I see things before you do. I know what you''ll need before you ask for it.

    That''s love, right? Anticipating. Understanding.

    You come into the caf¨¦ every Tuesday and Thursday. It''s part of your routine. I''ve memorized your routine because that''s what love is¡ªdedication, consistency. It''s like a pattern, and patterns are comforting, like knowing the world won''t fall apart because you''ll always be here at exactly 7:45 AM, five minutes before your first class.

    Your hair''s always a little wet because you shower in the mornings, and I get it. Fresh start, clean slate. That''s smart. Your clothes? Effortless. You always wear that oversized jacket, the one that hides your figure, but I know what''s underneath. You think you''re blending in, but you stand out in a sea of boring. I see your beauty, even when you try to disappear.

    The first time I saw you was accidental. I was just another guy trying to survive in this world of digital noise, but then you happened. You sat two tables over, and your smile lit up the room like it was for me, just for me. I mean, what are the odds? That was the day everything changed. You made it impossible not to notice. It wasn''t a coincidence. It was fate.

    I don''t think you''ve ever had someone like me, have you? Someone who truly sees you. Not the girl you project, the one with the headphones in and her head buried in books, but the real you. The one who looks out the window and wonders if anyone else feels the same longing, the same ache for something more. I can give you that. I can be the more you''re looking for.

    I''ve thought about talking to you. God, I''ve rehearsed it so many times in my head. It''d be perfect. I wouldn''t be like the other guys, the ones fumbling with their words, trying to impress you with lame pick-up lines. No, I''d come to you like I already know you, because I do. I''d say something witty, something that makes you laugh and realize, This is him. You''d smile, I''d smile, and that''d be it. The beginning of us.

    But I''ve waited. Patience is key. You have to wait for the perfect moment, the one that''ll lock us in place forever. I''m almost there, but not quite. Timing, that''s everything. I''ve learned that from watching you.

    It was Tuesday when I first followed you home. You don''t lock your door right away when you get inside, did you know that? You leave it cracked for a minute, and anyone could just walk in. Not me, of course. I respect boundaries. But others? You need someone who can protect you. Someone who knows when you''re vulnerable, who can keep you safe from all the dangers you don''t even realize are out there. Lucky for you, I''m that someone.

    I''m not stalking you, by the way. I hate that word. Stalking implies something dirty, something twisted. This? This is devotion. I''ve learned you, memorized the details of your life. That''s what people do when they care, right? I know where you sit in your favourite library corner. I know which drinks you order¡ªalways a double shot of espresso when you''re feeling tired, chai when you want to feel warm and loved. I even know the way you sleep, curled up like you''re trying to hold yourself together, because no one else will.

    Stolen novel; please report.

    But soon, I will.

    <hr>

    Thursday comes, and you''re late. Not like you. Not like you at all, and I''m worried because what if something happened? What if I''m not there to save you when you need me? That thought terrifies me, more than anything else. I check my watch, over and over, waiting, pacing, feeling the crack in the timeline of our lives widening with each passing minute.

    Then, finally, you appear, and everything is right again. You''re wearing that same jacket, the one that makes you look small, like you''re hiding. You rush in, out of breath, your face flushed. Late, but you''re here. Thank God. I almost couldn''t breathe without knowing where you were.

    You order your chai, and I know you''re overwhelmed, stressed. The semester''s getting to you, I can see that. You''re tired. Your hair''s a little messier today, like you didn''t even care. And that''s okay. I''ll care for you.

    I sit across from you. Not next to you, not yet. I can''t rush things, even though I want to. Every second I''m not with you is a second wasted, but I wait because that''s what love demands.

    But then, you do something different.

    You look up. You look at me. Like really look. Not just a glance, not a passing, indifferent stare, but you see me. You''ve noticed. And my heart does this little flip, because this is it. This is the beginning of us. I can feel it. You must feel it too.

    I''m about to say something, to finally break the silence between us, when someone else walks up to your table. A guy. Tall, broad shoulders, annoyingly handsome in that predictable, plastic way. He leans down and kisses you on the cheek.

    My world stops.

    Who the hell is he? Where did he come from? You''ve never mentioned him before, never acted like you were taken. You''ve been alone all this time. We''ve been alone. And now, this guy, this nobody, this invader¡ªhe thinks he can just step into our story?

    I watch as you smile at him, the way you should''ve smiled at me. My hands clench under the table, and I feel my nails digging into my palms. It''s not fair. It''s not right. I''ve been the one watching, waiting, loving. He hasn''t done anything for you. He hasn''t earned you like I have.

    But that''s okay. He won''t last. He''s temporary. I can tell. Guys like him always are.

    I stand up and walk out, leaving the caf¨¦ behind. There''s a plan forming in my head now, a way to fix things. I just need to be patient a little longer.

    Because I''m not going anywhere. You''ll see.

 Moth to a flame

    It was a warm afternoon in late August, the sort that dilates time and stretches the minutes like soft taffy across the summer sky. I sat by the open window of my modest second-floor apartment, nursing a glass of iced tea that had long since ceased being cold. The air was thick with the smell of lilacs and distant rain, although no storm had yet dared to disturb the languid perfection of the day.

    From where I reclined¡ªhalf-hidden beneath the lazy curl of an armchair¡ªI could see her. Of course, I could see her. She was the reason I had chosen this particular flat, with its dusty window ledge and its view of the green-shuttered house across the street, where she lived. She did not know I watched her, nor would she have cared if she had known, for her mind existed in a realm apart from the earthly preoccupations of those who might observe her with such, dare I say, obsessive fervour.

    Elena. A name that dripped from the tongue like honeyed wine, tinged with something just slightly bitter, a thistle hidden in the sweetness. She moved like a creature unmoored from the rest of us, her gestures as languid and deliberate as a cat''s, yet charged with an ineffable grace that made me want to study her forever¡ªah, forever, such an impractical word.

    In her garden, she leaned over the lilac bush, the hem of her white dress catching on the greenery, as if nature itself could not resist the urge to detain her. The sunlight poured over her like molten gold, igniting her pale skin, illuminating the dark halo of her hair as it fell in loose tendrils around her face. She was swatting at a moth¡ªhow charming, I thought, a moth, so delicate, so doomed in its obsession with light. It fluttered erratically around her head, evading her half-hearted attempts to brush it away.

    I watched this scene unfold through the window, knowing¡ªno, anticipating¡ªthe moment she would turn, her gaze scanning the street, and perhaps, just perhaps, she would pause for a fraction of a second on the window behind which I sat. And yet, Elena was not a woman who dealt in predictable patterns. She was a puzzle of gestures, of sighs and glances that hinted at the impenetrable depth of her inner world. She did not turn toward me, but continued her little dance with the moth, as if she were in some private performance, unseen by all but the actors in her mind.

    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

    The moth! How perfectly it circled her. In its winged desperation, it mirrored my own folly. Oh, how I flitted in my thoughts, just like that moth¡ªdrawn irresistibly to her brightness, knowing full well the burn that awaited me. But the burn, you see, is what makes it all so unbearably exquisite.

    I allowed myself to imagine, as I had countless times before, that I was not merely watching her from this dusty perch, but beside her. I saw myself walking through the lilac-laden air, my hand brushing against hers in an almost accidental but decidedly deliberate touch. Her eyes, those liquid jewels of inscrutable depth, would meet mine, and in that moment, something would spark¡ªa recognition, perhaps, that we were the same kind of creature, one that danced in circles, tethered to its own desires.

    But the moth grew too bold. It landed, foolishly, on her bare shoulder. And then, with a flick of her wrist, she brushed it away, sending it spiralling into the air. A sharp finality to the gesture, and yet, how graceful, how effortless. I felt an odd pang in my chest, something close to sympathy for the hapless thing. The moth, now rejected, fluttered awkwardly, disoriented in its flight before it vanished from view, as all such creatures do.

    Elena straightened, brushing her hair back from her forehead. She turned, not toward me, but toward the house. I knew the moment was over, as fleeting and fragile as the wings of the moth that had so briefly entertained her.

    And what of me? Would I continue to watch her from my window, as I had for so many afternoons? Would I remain the eternal observer, content with my quiet, unnoticed obsession?

    Or, like the moth, would I one day dare to break free from the protective pane of glass that separated us, to throw myself into her light, knowing full well the danger of such a fall?

 The Butchers Boy

    We all knew Charlie was no good from the start. Came out wrong, he did. That¡¯s what Mam said. ¡°Born with a black heart,¡± she¡¯d mutter, shaking her head whenever she caught sight of him on the street, hanging about in that tatty old coat, just standing there like he was waiting for something awful to happen. The other lads wouldn¡¯t go near him, not after the thing with the dog.

    A terrier it was, small and wiry, its tongue lolling out of its mouth. They found it under the railway bridge, the same spot where Charlie liked to go. They said it was a dare, but we all knew he didn¡¯t need any coaxing. It wasn¡¯t a big deal to him, not like it was to the rest of us. We talked about it for weeks, the way he¡¯d done it without blinking, like he was just skinning a rabbit or gutting a fish down at the butcher¡¯s.

    He was the butcher¡¯s boy, after all.

    ¡°Ah, but sure, it¡¯s in his blood,¡± old Mrs. O¡¯Donnell said, cackling from her corner in the pub. ¡°Them McNallys always had a bit of the devil in them. His da was the same, rest his soul.¡±

    The whole town knew it. His father, Big Tommy McNally, had been rough. Mam used to cross herself whenever his name came up, though she didn¡¯t mind the pork chops he sold, the meat wrapped up neat in brown paper. He had a heavy hand with Charlie, everyone said so. ¡°Teaches him a lesson, that¡¯s all,¡± Tommy would growl if anyone dared mention the bruises, the black eyes.

    But Charlie never said a word. Not once.

    We were all scared of him, even when he was a kid, not because he was big or strong, but because he was quiet. Too quiet. You could never tell what he was thinking. He had these eyes, you know? Dark, like stones at the bottom of a river, and you could feel them on you even if he wasn¡¯t looking.

    I remember one summer¡ªGod, it must have been years ago now¡ªwe¡¯d all gone down to the riverbank, me, Sean, Tommy Burke, and a few of the lads. It was one of those hot days where the air sticks to your skin and the smell of cut grass is everywhere. We were skimming stones, mucking about, and then Tommy dared Charlie to go swim out to the big rock in the middle of the river.

    It wasn¡¯t that far, but the current was fierce, and no one had done it before. We all waited, expecting him to laugh it off, maybe punch Tommy in the arm like he usually would. But Charlie didn¡¯t say a thing. Just stripped down to his shorts, pale as a ghost, and waded in.

    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

    We watched him go, watched him fight the pull of the river. At first, it looked like he wasn¡¯t going to make it, his arms flailing a bit, but then he found his rhythm, and before we knew it, he was at the rock, standing there like some kind of demon king, looking back at us. He didn¡¯t smile or wave or anything. Just stood there, dripping wet, his eyes dark and hollow.

    None of us cheered. It wasn¡¯t a victory, not really.

    Charlie made it back, of course. Of course he did. He always did.

    <hr>

    Years went by, and most of us left the town. Got jobs in Dublin or Galway, places where we didn¡¯t have to think about the butcher¡¯s boy or the things that happened in the dark corners of old places. But I stayed. I had to, didn¡¯t I? Mam was sick, and someone had to take care of her. So I stayed, and I saw it all unfold, bit by bit, like one of those slow train wrecks you can¡¯t look away from.

    The butcher¡¯s shop closed not long after Big Tommy dropped dead behind the counter. Heart attack, they said. But some folk whispered it wasn¡¯t the heart that gave out, it was the guilt. The years of what he¡¯d done to Charlie finally catching up with him.

    Charlie took over the shop, but it was never the same. He didn¡¯t have the knack for it, not like his da. The meat was off, too fatty or too tough. The customers stopped coming, and Charlie spent more time behind the butcher¡¯s curtain, sharpening his knives, than he did out front.

    Then one day, a girl from town went missing.

    She was a quiet thing, Katie Donnelly. Worked at the bakery, sweet as anything. I didn¡¯t know her that well, but I saw her sometimes when I went for a loaf of soda bread or a scone for Mam. She always smiled, always had a kind word. So when she vanished, the whole town was up in arms.

    They found her three days later.

    Under the railway bridge.

    <hr>

    I didn¡¯t go to the funeral. I couldn¡¯t. The whole town turned out, of course. But I stayed at home, staring out the window at the empty street, feeling the weight of something terrible pressing down on me. The whispers were everywhere, louder than ever.

    ¡°It was him,¡± Mrs. O¡¯Donnell hissed to anyone who¡¯d listen. ¡°Mark my words, that boy did it. He¡¯s always had a black heart, just like his da.¡±

    They arrested Charlie a week later. Brought him out in handcuffs, pale as ever, his face blank as a sheet of butcher¡¯s paper. He didn¡¯t resist, didn¡¯t say a word. Just walked with them, quiet as always.

    The papers had a field day. The Butcher¡¯s Boy, They Called Him. But it was different seeing it all written down in black and white, something about it made it more real, more final.

    I left town not long after that. There was nothing left for me there, not after Mam passed. But even now, after all these years, I still see Charlie¡¯s face sometimes, still hear the whisper of the river, feel those dark eyes watching me from the other side of the water.

    You don¡¯t forget a boy like Charlie.

    You don¡¯t forget what he was.

 The Dust Road

    The boy watched the horizon, the flat plain that stretched out before him, brown and desolate. The sky above was bruised, a great dome of grey and purple, heavy with clouds that never seemed to break. The road beneath his boots was dirt, dry and cracked, with deep ruts carved into it by wagons long gone. He had been walking for hours, maybe days, it didn¡¯t matter. Time wasn¡¯t something you kept out here.

    Behind him, the wind came low, moaning like a dying thing, swirling dust in slow spirals across the road. It got into his eyes, his mouth. The taste of it bitter and sharp, like old iron. But he didn¡¯t spit. He just kept walking, his head down, the battered hat on his head pulled low against the sunless sky.

    In the distance, something moved. A figure, dark and far off, barely more than a shadow. The boy squinted, wiping his hand across his brow, though it did nothing to clear his vision. The figure moved slow, deliberate. Coming toward him, though he couldn¡¯t tell yet if it was man or animal or something worse.

    He glanced at the rifle slung across his back. It was old, the wood splintered in places, the metal pitted with rust. He hadn¡¯t fired it in weeks. The ammunition was long gone. But it didn¡¯t matter. The weight of it was enough.

    The road was empty except for him and whatever it was out there. No birds, no trees, no life. Just the dust and the wind and the vast, flat sky.

    As he walked, his mind drifted to other things. His father. The small patch of land they had worked until it was dead, until the soil itself had given up. His father¡¯s hands were calloused and worn, fingers curled in on themselves like claws, as if they had been gripping the earth even after they had nothing left to hold onto. He remembered his father standing in the doorway of their shack, staring out at the same horizon the boy now faced, his shoulders hunched with a kind of defeat the boy hadn¡¯t yet known.

    Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

    When his father had gone silent, when his eyes turned blank and empty as the land, the boy had left. There was nothing else to do. He had taken the rifle from over the hearth, kissed his mother on the forehead where she lay dying in the bed, and he had stepped out into the dust, the wind catching the door as it swung shut behind him. He had never looked back.

    The shadow on the road was closer now. It had taken on shape, form. A man. Thin and bent, like a broken tree. The boy slowed, his hand resting on the rifle strap, his heart quickening. The man¡¯s gait was uneven, one leg dragging behind him as though it had forgotten how to walk. His head hung low, his face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat much like the boy¡¯s, and he held something in his hand. A stick, maybe, or a cane. Or something else entirely.

    The boy stopped. Waited. The wind tugged at his clothes, pulling him forward, but he stood still, his eyes on the man. He could hear the sound of the man¡¯s feet scraping the road, the slow drag of his steps, like someone too tired to go on but too stubborn to fall.

    When the man reached him, he lifted his head. His face was gaunt, hollow, eyes sunken deep into his skull like black pits. His lips cracked and dry, pulled back in something like a grin but without the warmth. He opened his mouth, as though he were going to speak, but the only sound that came out was a soft rasp, like wind through dead grass.

    The boy said nothing. There was nothing to say. He looked at the man¡¯s hand. It wasn¡¯t a stick he held, but a bone, long and thin, the surface bleached white by the sun. The man held it out to the boy, offering it like a gift.

    The boy didn¡¯t move.

    For a moment, the two of them stood there, alone on the empty road, the dust swirling around their feet, the sky watching silently. Then, without a word, the man dropped the bone at the boy¡¯s feet and continued walking, his body swaying as he moved, the road swallowing him up as he disappeared into the distance.

    The boy stared at the bone. It lay there in the dirt, pale and fragile, a remnant of something that had once lived but now was long dead.

    He kicked it aside, adjusted his hat, and kept walking. There was still a long way to go, and the road wasn¡¯t done with him yet.

 Fading out thoughts

    It was one of those rainy mornings that make you feel like you never really woke up. The sky outside was grey, washed-out, like an old Polaroid that someone forgot to develop. I was lying on the couch in my sister Liz¡¯s apartment, staring up at the ceiling. The rain was tapping against the window in that steady, half-lullaby way it does when it doesn¡¯t really have anything better to do. I¡¯d been in New York for three days now, visiting Liz, but it felt like longer.

    Liz was at the tiny kitchen table, reading some philosophy book or other. She had a habit of getting into these moods where she¡¯d read all day and not say a word to you unless you asked her something. I didn¡¯t mind. I wasn¡¯t exactly in the mood for conversation either.

    I looked at the window again, watching the rain streak down in crooked lines. You could hear the taxis splashing through puddles on the street below. People were probably getting drenched, running for cover, huddling under awnings, the usual. The rain always makes people move faster. I never understood that. It¡¯s not like running makes you any less wet.

    Liz turned a page of her book. The sound of it broke the stillness, but just barely.

    ¡°You ever wonder,¡± I said, ¡°if it¡¯s possible to just disappear? Like, not die or anything, but just¡­ fade out? Like you were never really here?¡±

    Liz didn¡¯t look up from her book. ¡°What are you talking about?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Just a thought.¡±

    She sighed, closed the book, and looked at me. She had this look that she always used on me, this half-annoyed, half-amused look, like she couldn¡¯t decide whether to tell me to shut up or just let me ramble.

    ¡°You sound like you¡¯ve been reading too much Camus,¡± she said.

    ¡°I haven¡¯t been reading anything,¡± I said. ¡°That¡¯s the problem.¡±

    ¡°Maybe you should. Might keep you from thinking weird stuff like that.¡±

    Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!

    I didn¡¯t answer. I wasn¡¯t in the mood for one of her lectures. I wasn¡¯t in the mood for much of anything, really. I rolled onto my side, facing the back of the couch. The cushions smelled faintly like her perfume. It reminded me of home, of when we were kids. We used to share a room when we were little, back before everything got so damn complicated.

    The rain picked up a little, pattering harder against the glass. I closed my eyes and tried to listen to it, tried to drown out the feeling that was creeping up on me. That feeling like I wasn¡¯t supposed to be here, like I wasn¡¯t supposed to be anywhere, really. I used to think it would go away if I ignored it long enough. It didn¡¯t.

    Liz stood up from the table, her chair scraping the floor. ¡°You want coffee?¡±

    ¡°Sure.¡±

    I heard her clattering around the kitchen, the sound of cups and spoons and the kettle being filled with water. I liked the way Liz made coffee. She didn¡¯t do any of that fancy stuff, no French press or Chemex or whatever they¡¯re calling it these days. Just plain old drip coffee, black and bitter, the way it ought to be.

    She came back with two mugs and handed me one. ¡°Here,¡± she said. ¡°This¡¯ll keep you from disappearing.¡±

    I took a sip. It was hot, almost too hot, but I didn¡¯t care. The heat was good. It made me feel solid, like I was still here. Liz sat down in the chair by the window, her own coffee balanced on her knee. She didn¡¯t say anything, just stared out at the rain like she was waiting for something to happen.

    After a while, she turned back to me. ¡°You gonna stay in the city?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Maybe. I¡¯ve been thinking about it.¡±

    She nodded, like she expected that answer. ¡°Well, if you do, you can stay here as long as you want. The couch isn¡¯t that bad, right?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± I said. ¡°Better than fine, actually.¡±

    ¡°Good.¡±

    We sat there for a long time, just drinking our coffee and listening to the rain. I kept thinking about what I¡¯d said earlier, about disappearing. It sounded stupid now that I¡¯d said it out loud, but it still felt true somehow. Like there were parts of me that were already gone, and no one had noticed yet. Maybe they never would.

    Liz finished her coffee and set the mug down on the windowsill. ¡°You know,¡± she said, ¡°I think it¡¯s impossible to disappear completely. Even if you tried. Someone would notice eventually.¡±

    ¡°Yeah?¡±

    ¡°Yeah. Even if it¡¯s just me, I¡¯d notice. You¡¯re too loud to disappear.¡±

    I laughed a little, even though it wasn¡¯t really funny. ¡°Maybe.¡±

    She smiled, just a small smile, but it was something. I liked it when she smiled. It made everything seem less heavy, less like it was all going to come crashing down around us.

    The rain kept falling, steady and relentless, but somehow, it didn¡¯t seem so bad anymore.

 Maze

    <blockquote><cite>Quote:</cite>

    [Page 47]

    </blockquote>

    The walls shift when you''re not looking. The floor creaks, too, but only in that way you hear when you''re alone and trying not to think about being alone. You have to keep moving, though. That''s the rule here.

    "Here" is still undefined.

    Left turn. Corridor. Longer than you expected. You check your pulse: 83 BPM. Higher than normal, but that''s expected now. Ever since it started following you. You never see it¡ª don''t look behind you ¡ªbut you feel it in the air, that electric humming like a television left on mute.

    You notice the wall. A message scrawled in pale, red ink. It''s fading, but you make it out:

    <blockquote><cite>Quote:</cite>

    DO NOT TRUST WHAT YOU HEAR

    </blockquote>

    But then, in the bottom right corner of your vision¡ªno, that can''t be right. Asterisks? Numbers. It''s as if the very text itself is lying.

    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    <hr>

    *cf. p. 12

    <blockquote><cite>Quote:</cite>

    The sound of nothing is worse than the presence of something.

    </blockquote>

    <hr>

    Right turn. Wall. Door.

    It wasn''t there before. But you touch it because you have no other choice. There''s a tremor in your hand, which you try to suppress, but the doorknob feels cold. Too cold. Your pulse jumps to 95 BPM.

    <blockquote><cite>Quote:</cite>

    [Page 12]

    </blockquote>

    <blockquote><cite>Quote:</cite>

    The labyrinth plays with time. Hours are minutes, and minutes, hours. But you already know this.

    You always knew this.

    </blockquote>

    Somewhere, a ticking. Faint. Like a pocket watch about to break. You open the door anyway. Inside, another corridor.

    You walk.

    <hr>

    *cf. p. 83

    <blockquote><cite>Quote:</cite>

    The corridors shift not when you''re looking, but when you think you aren''t.

    But you are always looking.

    </blockquote>

    <hr>

    More footsteps, but they aren''t yours. Faster, heavier, always around the next corner. Your breathing quickens. You hear your heart: 100 BPM. Faster now. Louder. Each thump, a new echo in the endless space around you.

    Then the walls breathe too. The cracks you didn''t notice earlier begin to widen, revealing something dark, pulsating inside them. Is it moving? Or are you?

    The ink on the walls starts to shift again. New letters form as you watch:

    <blockquote><cite>Quote:</cite>

    STOP RUNNING

    </blockquote>

    <hr>

    *cf. Appendix: p. 157

    <blockquote><cite>Quote:</cite>

    The centre is not where you think it is.

    It never was.

    </blockquote>

    <hr>

    <blockquote><cite>Quote:</cite>

    [Page 48]

    </blockquote>

    Another door. Smaller. It''s to your left now, but no doorknob this time. You hear a sound, faint again, like wind but colder, closer. Like it''s breathing. You don''t trust it. But your pulse says 110 BPM and you know you have to choose.

    Left? Or the path ahead?

    You place your hand on the door. It opens for you, silently, a whispering invitation. The room inside is darker than anything you''ve seen, impossibly black. Your skin crawls, but your hand reaches out anyway. Fingers touch something soft.

    Breathing.

    Is it yours?

 The Letters Between

    I find the first letter on a Monday, crammed between pages 42 and 43 of a book I don¡¯t remember buying. It¡¯s a small slip of paper, folded four times, worn and slightly brittle at the edges. I unfold it carefully, more out of habit than curiosity.

    The ink, faded but legible, forms three lines:

    You¡¯re not where you think you are. You¡¯ve missed something. Try again.

    No name, no signature. Just that. I frown, placing the letter aside, but something gnaws at the back of my mind. Missed what?

    By Thursday, I¡¯ve convinced myself it was some kind of practical joke, a clever marketing gimmick perhaps. I dismiss it as forgotten as the dust between the floorboards. But then I find the second letter.

    This one¡¯s slipped between two slices of bread as I unpack my groceries¡ªfolded again, the paper much the same as before, but this time more deliberate in its intrusion. I stare at it longer than I should, my hand hovering over the loaf, unsure of what to do next. Finally, I open it.

    The thing you¡¯re looking for isn¡¯t a thing at all. It¡¯s an idea.

    I blink, the words scattering across my vision as if they¡¯ve suddenly become unanchored. I toss the bread aside and re-read the note. The handwriting is the same. Same careful strokes, same vague sense of urgency. I don¡¯t have any idea what this means¡ªor why someone would be leaving these notes for me. I¡¯m not looking for anything.

    Am I?

    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    <hr>

    By Sunday, I¡¯ve lost my appetite. Three more letters have appeared, each one in a stranger place than the last. One inside my coat pocket¡ªthough I¡¯ve not worn it in weeks. Another pinned to my bathroom mirror when I wake up. A third slipped into my pillowcase, its folds indented against my cheek. Each message is more cryptic than the last.

    You¡¯re being hunted, but not in the way you think.

    Close your eyes and remember the sound of your own footsteps.

    The last piece is always the hardest to see because it looks just like everything else.

    <hr>

    I begin to suspect there¡¯s a pattern. A larger game. My apartment feels wrong, like someone has rearranged the furniture in infinitesimal ways that don¡¯t register until I stare too long. I can¡¯t sleep. My phone rings with a hollow, electronic click before hanging up. When I pick it up to redial, there¡¯s no record of any call.

    <hr>

    Two weeks in, I¡¯ve made a kind of ritual of it. I search every inch of my home, looking for new letters before they can surprise me. I leave doors unlocked, windows open, hoping to catch whoever¡¯s responsible in the act. But no one comes.

    Instead, the letters keep multiplying. I¡¯ve found twenty-three so far, each one repeating variations of the same half-coherent message. They whisper about forgotten things, about something I¡¯ve lost, but I can¡¯t remember losing anything at all. And that¡¯s the real problem, isn¡¯t it? The not knowing. Because what if I did lose something? Something so integral that its absence is the reason why nothing feels quite real anymore?

    <hr>

    I decide to leave the apartment. I¡¯ve packed a bag, closed the blinds, checked my reflection in the mirror for any lingering distortions. I can¡¯t explain it, but I need to get away from the letters¡ªfrom the constant sense of being watched by something I can¡¯t see.

    The moment I step outside, though, I find the final letter. It¡¯s pinned to my door, hanging crooked like it was meant for someone else but ended up here instead. I unfold it slowly, the paper trembling in my hands.

    You¡¯ve misunderstood. The letters aren¡¯t warnings.

    And that¡¯s when I hear it¡ªthe soft rustle of pages turning, not from the book in my hand, but from somewhere behind my eyes.

 Never look at the faces

    The smell hits first.

    It''s everywhere¡ªclinging to the walls, seeping into clothes, sticking to skin. You can''t wash it off, no matter how many times you try. No matter how hard you scrub. It stays. The air here is thick with it, the weight of rot hanging over everything.

    Nora learned to breathe through her mouth on her first day. The others had laughed at her when she gagged. Now she barely notices. Almost.

    The Facility is silent at this hour, the machines powered down for the night. Only a low hum remains, the buzz of refrigeration units keeping the shipments cool. She walks through the empty halls, past rows of stainless steel, each surface polished and gleaming under the fluorescent lights. It''s clean, almost sterile, but the stench still lingers. It always does.

    She reaches the storage bay and enters her code. The door slides open with a hiss, revealing racks of hanging carcasses. Some are small, barely the size of a child. Others are larger, fully grown. All of them are tagged, categorized by weight and quality. Prime stock. They''ll fetch a high price in the morning.

    Nora doesn''t think about where they came from anymore. She used to. It had kept her awake at night in the beginning, thoughts of what they must have been like before. Before the processing. But it''s easier not to think about it. Easier to focus on the job, on the numbers. The yield.

    The bodies sway gently as she walks between them, her footsteps echoing on the concrete floor. She checks the list on her tablet. Four units from the latest batch need to be prepped for special orders. High-end cuts, shipped to the VIP clients. The ones who could afford the real delicacies.

    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    She pulls a carcass from the rack, its skin pale and smooth, and hooks it onto the butcher''s station. The knife in her hand feels natural now, an extension of her arm. She doesn''t hesitate. The blade cuts cleanly, parting flesh from bone with practised ease. She moves quickly, efficiently. There''s no need for artistry here. Just precision.

    By the time she finishes, her gloves are slick with blood. She wipes them on her apron, then packages the cuts, sealing each one with the Facility''s logo: a simple design, just two letters. CH. Consumer Harvest.

    She stacks the packages in the outgoing bin and logs the order on her tablet. Three more to go. She doesn''t look at the faces. They told her not to, when she first started. Told her it would make things easier. They were right.

    But tonight, something catches her eye.

    The next carcass is different. Smaller, frailer. The skin is bruised in places, dark patches spreading like stains. When she turns it over, she sees the face. Hollow eyes, open mouth. Lips still cracked, as if it had been trying to speak.

    She freezes.

    There''s a scar, just below the chin. A thin line, barely noticeable, but she knows it. She knows it because she''s seen it before.

    Her sister had that scar.

    For a long moment, she stares. The world around her goes quiet, the hum of the machines fading into nothing. All she can hear is her own breathing, quick and shallow, echoing in her chest.

    It can''t be her. It''s impossible. She had been careful. Careful to keep her name off the lists, careful to keep her away from the processors. Careful to keep her safe.

    But it''s her.

    Nora steps back, her hands trembling. The knife falls from her grip, clattering against the concrete. She tries to steady herself, but the ground is tilting, the walls closing in.

    She wants to scream, but the air is too thick, her throat too tight. All she can do is stare, her mind buzzing, her body numb.

    They had told her not to look at the faces.

    But she had.

    And now she can''t unsee it.

    <hr>

    The next morning, the Facility is running as usual. The machines are back on, the workers moving with the same practised efficiency. The stench fills the air, as it always does.

    No one notices the empty space in the storage bay.

 Little Sparrow

    There was once a small sparrow who lived in an old oak tree at the edge of a meadow. His name was Timothy, and he was, for all accounts, an ordinary bird. His feathers were neither the brightest nor the dullest, and he sang his songs with no more skill than the others. Yet, there was something about Timothy that set him apart.

    Each morning, when the sun began its slow climb over the horizon, Timothy would sit on the highest branch of the oak tree and watch the world below. The meadow was always the same¡ªgreen and growing, with wildflowers that danced in the breeze and bees that hummed over their blossoms. The river ran along its edge, sparkling in the early light, and beyond that, the hills rolled gently, inviting in their quiet majesty. It was beautiful, and Timothy loved it with all his heart.

    But as much as he loved his home, Timothy longed to fly beyond the meadow. He had heard the stories from older birds¡ªof far-off cities with tall buildings, of mountains that pierced the clouds, and of forests so vast that no bird had ever seen the end of them. Timothy wanted to see these places, to know if they were as grand as the stories said.

    One day, as the other birds were busy gathering food and tending to their nests, Timothy made a decision. He would leave the meadow and see what lay beyond. He spread his wings and took off, the wind lifting him higher and higher until the oak tree was just a speck below.

    Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

    For hours he flew, past the river, over the hills, and through forests he had never known existed. The world was wide and wonderful, just as he had imagined, but as the sun began to set and the sky turned a soft pink, Timothy realized something. He was tired, more tired than he had ever been, and the meadow¡ªthe safe, familiar meadow¡ªwas far behind him.

    Timothy perched on a branch of a strange tree, alone and far from home. The air was cooler here, and the sounds of the forest were unfamiliar. He thought of the old oak tree and the other birds settling into their nests for the night. And then, for the first time, Timothy felt a twinge of doubt.

    Perhaps, he thought, he wasn¡¯t ready for such a big adventure. Maybe the stories of far-off lands were meant for older, wiser birds, the kind who knew how to find their way back home when the day grew long and shadows stretched across the earth.

    But as Timothy nestled into the crook of the branch, he looked out over the horizon. There, in the distance, was a tiny glow¡ªthe last rays of the sun touching the meadow he knew so well. It was small and far away, but it was still there, waiting for him.

    Timothy smiled, a quiet, tired smile, and closed his eyes. Tomorrow, he thought, he would fly a little farther. And one day, when he was ready, he would see all the places the older birds spoke of. But for tonight, he was content knowing that home was always there, just beyond the horizon, whenever he chose to return.

 The Hollow of Hawthorn Hill

    The wind howled through the bare branches of Hawthorn Hill as Eleanor Grey stood on the precipice, her cloak billowing behind her like the wings of some dark, forgotten bird. The moorland stretched endlessly before her, bleak and lonely, under the heavy weight of a sky burdened with clouds. It was a desolate place¡ªwild and unrelenting¡ªbut Eleanor had always felt at home in its solitude, as if the quiet melancholy of the landscape mirrored the quiet melancholy of her soul.

    She had walked the familiar path from Briarwood Hall, her father''s vast estate, every evening for the past year. At first, it had been out of necessity¡ªa means to escape the oppressive gloom of her father''s household. Now, it was habit. Eleanor had always been a creature of quiet routine, finding comfort in the small predictabilities of life, though life had given her little else to depend upon.

    Briarwood Hall was as suffocating as it was grand, its tall windows casting pale light across rooms that held no warmth. Her father, Lord Grey, was a man of rigid expectations, whose love had long since withered into an expectation of duty. Her mother, once a woman of bright laughter and soft affections, had passed away when Eleanor was but twelve, leaving behind a daughter who had never quite learned how to live without her.

    And then there was Richard.

    Eleanor''s breath caught in her throat at the mere thought of him, though she had promised herself she would not think of him on this particular night. But the heart, she knew well, was not so easily governed by promises or pride.

    Richard Weston had been a guest at Briarwood Hall for only a fortnight, but in that time, he had managed to unravel every defence Eleanor had built around herself. He was different from the other suitors who came to Briarwood¡ªmen who saw only her dowry, or the reputation that came with marrying Lord Grey''s daughter. Richard had looked at her as if she were not a prize to be won, but a puzzle to be solved. And for the first time in her life, Eleanor had allowed herself to believe that someone might wish to know her¡ªnot the Eleanor that society demanded, but the Eleanor who wandered the moors at dusk, who wrote poetry no one would ever read, and who longed, above all else, for a life of her own choosing.

    But Richard was gone now. He had left as quickly as he had come, summoned back to London by family obligations, leaving behind only a brief, formal letter of farewell. He had spoken of duty¡ªof the life that awaited him in the city, one that could not accommodate the wild heart of a girl from the moors.

    Eleanor had burned the letter the night it arrived, though she had read it more times than she cared to admit before striking the match.

    A sudden gust of wind pulled her from her reverie, and she wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders, shivering not from the cold, but from the bitterness of her memories. She turned her gaze toward the dark horizon, willing herself to be rid of him¡ªof his ghost that clung to her, haunting every corner of her mind.

    If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    "Enough," she whispered to the wind. "He is gone, and I must let him be."

    And yet, as if in defiance of her resolve, a sound broke the stillness¡ªa distant, rhythmic clattering. Hoofbeats.

    Eleanor''s heart leapt in her chest. She strained to see through the gloom, her eyes narrowing against the thickening mist. Surely, it could not be him. Her mind must be playing tricks upon her, conjuring the one thing she wished for most, only to taunt her with its impossibility.

    But no¡ªthere was a figure, distinct and undeniable, riding up the narrow path toward her. The rider was cloaked in shadow, his face obscured by the night, but the familiar outline of his frame sent a thrill of recognition through her.

    Richard.

    He reined his horse to a stop just a few feet from where she stood, dismounting with the practised ease of one accustomed to travel. For a moment, he did not speak, and neither did she. They simply looked at one another, as if unsure whether to trust what lay before them.

    Finally, it was Richard who broke the silence, his voice low and rough, as though he, too, had been fighting some unseen battle.

    "Eleanor," he said, her name falling from his lips like a plea. "I had to return. I had to see you."

    Her heart, traitorous as ever, skipped within her chest. But she would not allow herself to be so easily swayed. Not this time.

    "You left," she said, her voice steady but cold. "You left without a word, and I was a fool to think you might care for me beyond what was convenient."

    Richard''s expression twisted with something like regret¡ªor perhaps it was something deeper, something darker. He took a step toward her, then another, until he was close enough that she could see the faint lines of weariness etched into his features.

    "I left because I was afraid," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Afraid that I could not give you the life you deserve. That you would come to resent me for it. But I have been more miserable without you than I ever was with those fears."

    Eleanor''s heart ached at his words, but she would not allow it to soften her just yet. "And now? What has changed? Will you leave again, when duty calls?"

    Richard reached for her hand, his touch warm against the chill of the night. "I cannot promise you a life free of difficulties, Eleanor. But I can promise that I will face them with you, if you''ll have me."

    For a moment, she said nothing. She simply stared at him, at the man who had broken her heart, standing before her and offering her its mending. The wind whipped around them, cold and biting, but in that moment, it no longer mattered.

    The moors, the mist, the vastness of the world¡ªall of it faded into insignificance.

    "I will," she said softly, allowing her hand to remain in his. "But if you leave me again, Richard Weston, I will not wait for you a second time."

    A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he brought her hand to his lips. "I swear to you, I will not."

    And for the first time in what felt like years, Eleanor allowed herself to believe.

 Tradition

    The village of Umuokwe had always lived in the shadow of the great Iroko tree. For as long as anyone could remember, the Iroko stood at the centre of the village, its branches spreading wide like the arms of a guardian. The elders told stories of how the tree had been there since the beginning of time, watching over the people and their land. Some said the tree held the spirits of the ancestors, others whispered that it was a living god. All knew that its roots ran deep, and to disturb it would invite calamity.

    Okeke was a weaver, his hands swift and sure, known throughout the village for his beautiful clothes. He wove patterns of the earth, of the river, of the wind, and of the stars. His clothes sold well in the market, and his family never lacked for food. Yet despite his skill, Okeke was a man troubled by dreams.

    In his sleep, the Iroko tree called to him. Its roots whispered in his sleep. Each night, the dreams grew more vivid, the voices more insistent. They spoke of the old ways, of sacrifices long forgotten. They spoke of the harvest, of droughts, of the rains that never came. But most of all, they spoke of him.

    One morning, as the first light of dawn kissed the village, Okeke woke from yet another dream, drenched in sweat. He lay still for a moment, listening to the rhythmic breathing of his wife, Nneka, beside him. The dream''s words echoed in his mind: "Go to the tree."

    He rose quietly and slipped out of the house, his bare feet brushing against the cool earth. The village was still asleep, the only sound the rustling of leaves in the early morning breeze. Okeke walked to the Iroko, its great trunk looming before him like a mountain. His heart pounded in his chest as he placed a trembling hand on the bark.

    "Why do you call me?" he whispered, his voice breaking the stillness.

    The tree did not answer.

    For days, Okeke returned to the Iroko, standing before it in silence, waiting for the whispers that haunted his dreams to come again. He stopped weaving, stopped going to the market. His family grew worried, but when Nneka asked him what troubled him, he could not find the words. How could he explain the pull he felt toward the tree, the strange compulsion that had taken hold of him?

    It was on the seventh day that he decided he could wait no longer. That evening, as the sun set, painting the sky in hues of red and orange, Okeke gathered his tools and went to the tree. The village elders had always forbidden anyone from cutting the Iroko, but Okeke''s mind was set. The dreams had left him with no choice.

    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

    He approached the tree with reverence, placing his palm against the bark once more. The whispers in his dreams had grown to a roar, demanding something he could not refuse. With a deep breath, he raised his axe and struck.

    The sound of wood splitting echoed through the village like a clap of thunder. Okeke swung again, harder this time. The tree groaned, and as he struck once more, a low rumble began beneath his feet.

    The ground shook.

    Villagers rushed from their homes, their eyes wide with terror as the earth trembled. They saw Okeke, alone at the foot of the great Iroko, striking the sacred tree.

    "Stop!" cried one of the elders, his voice thick with fear. "You will bring the wrath of the gods upon us!"

    But Okeke did not stop. His hands moved as if possessed, his axe cutting deep into the tree''s flesh. The shaking grew stronger, and suddenly, with a great creaking sound, the Iroko began to fall.

    The villagers screamed and scattered as the massive tree crashed to the ground, its branches snapping like bones. Dust rose in great clouds, and the earth groaned in pain.

    Okeke stood amidst the destruction, his breath coming in short gasps. For a moment, all was silent.

    Then the rains began.

    Heavy and unrelenting, the sky opened, pouring water onto the land. The villagers watched in astonishment as the dry earth soaked up the rain. The river, which had been nearly dry for years, swelled and roared to life. Crops that had withered in the fields began to stand tall again.

    The Iroko had fallen, but the land was healed.

    Okeke stood alone, his axe hanging limply by his side. The whispers had ceased. The tree no longer called to him. But as he looked at the villagers¡ªat their faces, fearful and disbelieving¡ªhe knew that nothing would ever be the same.

    The elders would not speak to him. The people avoided his gaze. Even his family slowly began to distance themselves. The rains had come, but at what cost? He had brought the village prosperity, at their god''s behest, yet they hated him for it.

    In time, the stump of the great Iroko was forgotten, overgrown with vines and shrubs. But the people of Umuokwe, rigid in their beliefs, did not forget.

    Nor did they forgive.

 Head above water

    The lights flicker as I step off the bus, hoodie pulled tight over my head. The city''s heartbeat echoes through the streets¡ªscreeching tyres, distant voices, the hum of neon signs. My feet hit the cracked pavement, but the weight pressing on my chest feels heavier than gravity. It''s been a long day, too long, and my head''s spinning like a broken record, repeating everything wrong I''ve done in the past few months.

    Phone buzzes in my pocket, but I don''t need to check it. It''s her. Again. I can feel her disappointment, like a knife through the screen, cutting me without even saying a word. "Come home," she''d text. "We need to talk," she''d insist, but it''s the same thing every time. Words flying like bullets in a firefight, no one wins. I''ve got nothing to say that''s gonna fix it. Not anymore.

    I take a left down the alley, the shortcut I shouldn''t use but always do. Dark, quiet, the only place that matches my mood. My shoes crunch on the broken glass, but I don''t stop. Can''t stop. If I stop, I''ll think. And if I think, I''ll drown in it all.

    She doesn''t get it. No one does. I''m trying to keep my head above water, but it feels like I''m tied to a cinder block, sinking slow. She sees the anger, the silence, the walls I keep putting up, but she doesn''t know what''s behind them. If she did, she''d leave faster than she says she will. Every time we argue, she throws it out there like a grenade: "I''m done, I''m leaving." But she never does. Not really. And that just makes it worse. ''Cause I know one day, she''s gonna mean it.

    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

    The alley''s getting darker, but I can''t turn back now. Got nowhere to go except forward. That''s what they all say, right? Keep pushing through. But what if you push so hard you fall off the edge? What then?

    Another buzz from the phone. Another text from her. I keep walking.

    I should be home. I should be with her, talking this out. Being the man I said I''d be. But I''m not. I''m here, alone, in the cold, trying to outrun a storm that''s already swallowed me whole. Ain''t no outrunning your own mind. Ain''t no escape from the thoughts that keep chasing you down.

    I glance at the text. "I love you."

    My chest tightens. The words are a lifeline I don''t deserve. I could go back. I could. Apologize. Try to make things right. But what''s the point? The damage is done, cracks in the foundation so deep they can''t be patched. She deserves better. Someone who doesn''t turn to stone every time things get hard. Someone who can give her more than this¡­ this mess I''ve become.

    The rain starts. Fitting, I guess. Cold drops hit my face, but I don''t wipe them away. I let them blend in with the tears I''m too stubborn to admit are there. I keep walking, keep moving, ''cause stopping means facing it. All of it.

    Maybe I''ll go back. Maybe tomorrow.

 The Ashes of Kesseldorf

    It began with a low, rumbling growl, as if the sky itself had begun to convulse. The villagers of Kesseldorf, nestled in a valley once green and soft with spring, heard it long before they saw it. Cows in their pens lifted their heads, wide-eyed, and children stopped their play by the river''s edge. They looked up, confused, at the sky that had darkened without warning.

    A sudden rush of wind. Then a second of absolute silence¡ªjust long enough for them to take in the sight of the planes, sleek and black, cutting through the heavens like crows over a carcass.

    No one in Kesseldorf had known what war truly meant. They had read the reports, heard whispers of the frontlines in far-off places, but the valley had remained untouched. Until now.

    The first bomb fell on the church, an accident perhaps. It was a misjudgment of coordinates or simply fate''s cruelty. The tower crumbled like sand, sending clouds of dust spiraling into the air. The sound was deafening, but the horror came later, as the fire took hold. The blaze spread quickly, licking at the timbered houses, turning them into torches in the night.

    Gerhard Muller, a farmer whose hands had known only the soil of his fields, rushed out, clutching his son to his chest. The boy, seven years old, was crying, his voice hoarse from smoke. Around them, women screamed, clutching at the bodies of their dead children or searching for those still lost in the chaos. They had all become orphans to the fire.

    The air smelled of burning wood and flesh. Gerhard did not pause to mourn the loss of his home; there was no time for that. His eyes searched the flames for his wife, Anna, who had run toward the schoolhouse when the bombs began to fall. She was supposed to fetch their daughter, Elsa, just five years old, but neither of them had returned.

    Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

    The second wave came, low and merciless, just as the villagers thought the worst was over. Bombs rained like hail, shredding roofs, trees, and bodies alike. The whine of engines grew louder, more oppressive, until it felt like the sky itself was descending, crushing the breath out of the world.

    Gerhard stumbled. His legs buckled as the ground shook, but he didn''t let go of his son. He couldn''t. Somewhere, beyond the flames, beyond the smoke, was Anna, and he knew that he would die if he did not reach her. He had to believe she was alive, that Elsa was alive. He had to believe.

    But Kesseldorf was no longer a village. It was a charred memory, its streets turned to rubble, its people to ghosts.

    The planes passed overhead, their bomb bays emptied, their mission complete. They disappeared into the night, leaving behind a silence heavier than the roar of explosions. The fires would burn for hours still, devouring what was left.

    In the morning, a faint mist rose from the ground where the bombs had fallen, mingling with the last remnants of smoke. The survivors¡ªthose who had found shelter, those who had managed to crawl from the wreckage¡ªwandered aimlessly, their faces blank, their eyes dull with shock. They were searching for names, for faces, for anyone they had once known.

    Gerhard stood among them, his son silent at his side. He had not found Anna. He had not found Elsa. And now, in the soft, pale light of dawn, he knew he never would.

    There was no sound in the valley, save for the occasional crack of collapsing timbers. The wind, gentle now, carried the ashes of Kesseldorf far away, over fields that had once been green, toward cities that had yet to know such fire.

 Aint doing that white people shit...

    Jamal hadn''t intended to drive through that part of the country. The GPS had rerouted him after a rockslide on the main road, and before he realized it, he was deep in the heart of Pennsylvania''s forgotten highways, the kind of roads that don''t show up on tourist maps. Trees stood like solemn sentinels on either side of the winding road, their branches arching overhead like the ribs of some ancient, slumbering beast.

    The last town had been over thirty miles back¡ªnothing more than a cluster of weather-beaten houses and a gas station with a faded sign. The attendant, an old man with milky cataracts, had warned him to "stick to the highways" and "not take no detours." Jamal had chuckled, assuming it was small-town superstition or, at worst, some backwoods xenophobia. Now, though, with the sun slipping beneath the horizon and shadows creeping into every corner of his vision, he wasn''t so sure.

    His cell phone had lost signal half an hour ago. No GPS, no radio stations. Just the hum of his tyres on cracked asphalt and the growing sense of unease pressing against his chest like a physical weight.

    Ahead, a figure appeared, standing in the middle of the road. Jamal slammed on the brakes. The car skidded to a stop, headlights casting long shadows across the figure¡ªa woman, dressed in a long, tattered coat, her face pale and sunken.

    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    She didn''t move.

    Jamal hesitated. He''d heard enough horror stories to know that stopping for strange people in the middle of nowhere was a bad idea. But something in her eyes¡ªwide, haunted¡ªcompelled him. He rolled down his window, just enough to hear her.

    "Please," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "You have to get off this road."

    Jamal felt a chill slide down his spine. "What do you mean?"

    The woman glanced over her shoulder, back into the dark forest that seemed to press in closer now, as if the trees themselves were listening. "The road¡­ it changes when the sun sets."

    Jamal frowned. "What changes?"

    Her eyes locked onto his, desperate. "It leads to places. Old places. Places not meant for the living."

    Before Jamal could respond, a sound, distant but growing closer, rumbled through the night. It was a low, mechanical growl, like the roar of an engine¡ªbut distorted, wrong, as if it were coming from the bowels of the earth. The woman''s eyes widened in terror.

    "It''s coming," she whispered. "You need to leave."

    Jamal''s heart pounded in his chest. He hit the gas, turned around and sped away without waiting to see what was coming. When he looked back, the woman was no longer there; gone, as if she never existed.

 Waiting for the Rain

    They sat, as they always did, on the low stone wall by the field. The field itself, dry, cracked, and begging for some absolution from the sky, stretched out before them. Two men, neither young nor old, neither thin nor thick, merely there, as much a part of the landscape as the wall and the dirt beneath it.

    One of them, Joss, picked at his boots with a stick. Not for any particular reason. He had stopped thinking of reasons long ago. His boots were covered in the dust of seasons that had come and gone with no care for the passage of time, much like himself. The other, Madd, stared up at the clouds¡ªgreat grey lumps that sagged in the air but refused to burst. He scratched his chin, which no longer needed scratching, the beard long since worn away.

    ¡°Rain¡¯ll come,¡± Joss muttered, more out of habit than belief.

    Madd didn¡¯t answer. He never did. Joss, on some level, admired that. Madd didn¡¯t care about answers. He just sat, waiting. There was a kind of peace in it, Joss thought. Maybe peace wasn¡¯t the word. Maybe there wasn¡¯t a word. There were so few words left, and fewer still that mattered.

    Joss sighed, flicked the stick away. Watched it roll a little before settling into the dirt. He thought about picking it up again but decided against it. It wasn¡¯t worth the effort. His eyes followed the clouds, grey and stubborn. They were always there, like the promise of something better, something wet and clean. But the promise was always broken.

    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    "You think it''ll come?" Joss asked, though he knew Madd wouldn¡¯t reply. He knew. The question wasn¡¯t for Madd. It was for the silence that always followed.

    The silence came, as expected. It wrapped around them both, thick and oppressive, like the air before a storm that never arrived. Joss could feel the weight of it pressing down, the empty space between the words he wanted to say and the ones he¡¯d forgotten.

    "We could go inside," he said, breaking the silence just as it had begun to feel comfortable. "But it won''t change anything."

    Madd grunted. It was the closest thing to a conversation they¡¯d had in weeks. Maybe months. Joss wasn''t sure anymore. Time was as stubborn as the rain¡ªthere, but not really. He looked at Madd, whose face was carved into a frown by years of nothing in particular.

    ¡°I had a dream last night,¡± Joss said. Madd didn¡¯t ask what about. Joss told him anyway. ¡°It was raining. Pouring, really. The whole field was under water, and I was out there, trying to catch it all in my hands.¡± He paused. ¡°Couldn¡¯t do it. Slipped right through.¡±

    He waited for Madd to say something, but of course, Madd didn¡¯t. The silence returned, slipping back into place like it had never left.

    The clouds hung heavy, indifferent, as always. Maybe they''d break, maybe they wouldn¡¯t. It didn¡¯t really matter. The wall would still be there. So would the field, dry and cracked, waiting for something that wouldn¡¯t come.

    Joss scratched his chin and stared out at the horizon, which never seemed to get any closer. "We''ll wait, then," he said, mostly to himself.

    Madd nodded.

 Loyalty

    In the dead of night, Mei stood at the edge of the riverbank, the cold wind biting at her face. The sky was a vast, black expanse, punctuated only by the dull shimmer of stars obscured by a haze of smog. The city behind her, once alive with the hum of people and lights, now seemed distant, a forgotten memory. Her breath clouded the air in front of her, disappearing as quickly as it formed, like the ghosts of the past she tried so desperately to outrun.

    She crouched down, her fingers brushing the surface of the water. The river was dark, its depths unknowable, swirling with secrets. This was where it had happened¡ªwhere he had disappeared, swallowed by the same waters that now lapped at her shoes.

    His name had been Min, but even saying it now felt like an act of defiance. The government had erased him, their reach long and merciless. They had called him a traitor, a dissident, a danger to the Party. But to Mei, he had been the only real thing in a world of shadows.

    "Mei," a voice called softly from behind. She didn''t have to turn to know who it was. Li Yuan, the man tasked with watching her, ensuring her silence. His presence was constant, an unspoken reminder that freedom was an illusion, just like everything else in her life.

    "I was just thinking about him," she said, her voice barely louder than the wind.

    Li Yuan approached, his heavy boots crunching against the gravel. He paused beside her, his face unreadable in the dim light. "It¡¯s dangerous to think about the past."

    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

    She didn¡¯t respond, her gaze fixed on the river. The truth was, she couldn¡¯t stop thinking about it. Every night since Min¡¯s disappearance, the same thought circled in her mind like a relentless tide: What if I had warned him?

    "Why are you here?" she asked, finally standing up and facing him. "Are you afraid I''ll jump?"

    Li Yuan¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change, but there was something in his eyes¡ªsomething that flickered just for a moment, before he buried it again beneath layers of duty and control. "You know they¡¯re watching you," he said, his voice low. "They want to make sure you don¡¯t forget your place."

    Mei smiled, but it was a hollow thing, more reflex than emotion. "And what place is that? A loyal citizen, mourning her brother, or the woman who let him die?"

    Li Yuan¡¯s silence was answer enough.

    The city stretched out behind them, a grid of neon lights and dark alleyways, a labyrinth that swallowed people whole. Mei had once thought she could navigate it, make sense of its rules and power structures, but now it felt like she was trapped, her every move anticipated, controlled.

    She looked at Li Yuan, studying his face. They had grown up in the same district, shared the same classrooms, the same teachers who had drilled into them the importance of loyalty to the Party. And yet here they were, on opposite sides of an invisible line.

    "You were his friend," she said quietly. "Don¡¯t you ever wonder what really happened to him?"

    Li Yuan¡¯s jaw tightened, and for a moment, Mei thought he might finally say something¡ªsomething real, something true. But then the mask slipped back into place, and he shook his head. "What happened is what always happens to people like him. He made a choice. And now he¡¯s gone."

    Mei turned away, staring out at the water again. She felt the weight of his words settle into her bones, cold and heavy. People like him. People who dared to question, to resist. They were nothing more than ripples in the river, quickly erased, quickly forgotten.

 "The Quietness Between Us"

    It was late in the evening when I first saw her at the bar on Shinjuku Street. The place was dim, the music soft enough to feel like the atmosphere itself was speaking in whispers. She sat two stools away, sipping a pale yellow drink I couldn''t place. Her dark hair fell like a curtain over her shoulders, and there was something oddly deliberate in the way she stirred her drink.

    I ordered a beer and stared at the shelves lined with bottles, their dusty labels staring back. The bartender, an old man with a thin moustache, moved silently, like a shadow attending to forgotten spirits. It was the kind of bar you could sit in for hours, wrapped in an impenetrable layer of silence, and no one would notice.

    After what felt like an eternity, she turned to me, her eyes catching the dim light in a way that made her seem both real and not. "You come here often?" she asked, her voice low, almost as if she wasn''t asking me at all but some invisible entity between us.

    "Sometimes," I replied. "Not as much as I used to."

    "Funny," she said. "You look like someone who''s been coming here for years."

    I wasn''t sure how to respond, so I took a sip of my beer. It was warm, stale. The bar hadn''t changed in years, and I was starting to think the beer hadn''t either. She smiled a little, like she knew exactly what I was thinking.

    "What''s your name?" she asked, not looking at me this time, but instead staring into her drink, as if waiting for it to tell her a secret.

    "Kazuo," I said.

    "Kazuo," she repeated softly. "I''m Yumi."

    And that was it. No handshake, no exchange of pleasantries. Just the quiet naming of ourselves, as if we were both acknowledging that we existed in this small corner of Tokyo, for now.

    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    For the next hour, we sat there, not speaking much, just letting the quiet thrum of the city outside blend with the music and the low hum of conversations around us. Occasionally, Yumi would say something strange, like, "Do you ever think about the sound the stars make?" or "I wonder what the moon feels like when no one is looking." And I would nod, not because I understood, but because it felt like the right thing to do.

    At some point, she stood up. I thought she was leaving, but instead, she moved to the stool next to mine. Her perfume was light, almost imperceptible, but there. Like the faint memory of something sweet from childhood. She leaned in slightly, and for the first time, I noticed a thin scar running along her jawline, barely visible in the low light.

    "Do you believe in coincidences?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

    "I don''t know," I said honestly. "I guess they happen sometimes."

    She smiled that small smile again, the one that never quite reached her eyes. "I used to think everything was a coincidence. Like how we meet people, how we end up in certain places at certain times. But now¡­"

    Her voice trailed off. Outside, a car honked in the distance, and I felt something shift, as if the world had just taken a small breath.

    "Now, I think maybe some things are meant to happen," she finished, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass.

    I wanted to ask her what she meant, but the words felt too heavy in my mouth. Instead, we sat in silence again, the kind of silence that wasn''t uncomfortable but deep, like an ocean neither of us was ready to dive into.

    When she finally left, she didn''t say goodbye. She just stood up, placed a few yen on the counter, and walked out into the night. The bartender didn''t seem to notice, but then again, he never really noticed anything.

    For days afterwards, I found myself thinking about her. Yumi, with her soft voice and the scar on her jaw. I even went back to the bar a few more times, hoping she might walk in again. But she never did.

    One night, about a month later, I was walking home from work when I passed by a small bookstore I''d never noticed before. In the window, among the dusty shelves and faded covers, I saw it. A thin paperback with the title The Quietness Between Us by Yumi Sato.

    Without thinking, I stepped inside and bought it. The cashier didn''t say a word, and I left without looking at the change he handed me. At home, I sat on my bed and began to read. The first sentence struck me like a punch to the chest:

    Do you believe in coincidences?

    And in that moment, I wasn''t sure if I did.

 Fearie Tale

    Erica stared out of the kitchen window, hands submerged in lukewarm dishwater. The dishes clinked softly, the dull rhythm fading into the hum of her thoughts. Out in the backyard, the leaves had started to fall, casting brittle yellow patches over the browning grass. It was late September, just cold enough to keep the windows shut, and just warm enough that the air inside felt heavy and close.

    Jared, her son, was playing near the old oak tree. She could just see the top of his head bobbing behind the swing set. He''d been quiet all day, unnervingly so. No questions about cartoons, no whining for snacks. Just silence, punctuated by the occasional snap of a twig or the swish of leaves being gathered into piles.

    Last night, he hadn''t slept. Not really. Erica had heard him muttering to himself in the hallway at two in the morning, his small feet padding down the hallway. She found him standing by the front door, staring at the doorknob as though waiting for it to turn on its own.

    She''d led him back to bed, his hands cold, eyes far away. "What were you doing, honey?" she had asked, her voice a whisper so as not to wake Ben.

    "I was talking to the lady," Jared had replied, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

    "What lady?"

    Jared shrugged. "The one outside. She watches me."

    Erica frowned. Kids had wild imaginations. He''d been watching too many shows, too much YouTube when she wasn''t paying attention. She''d tucked him in and stayed with him until his breathing evened out.

    She dried her hands on a towel and stepped outside. The air hit her like a cool breath, laden with the earthy smell of decaying leaves. Jared was crouched down, digging in the dirt beneath the oak.

    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    "Jared?" she called softly.

    He didn''t look up.

    She walked closer, her sneakers crunching over the dead grass. "What are you doing, buddy?"

    He froze, his hand mid-dig. Slowly, he stood, turning to face her. His eyes¡ªthose big brown eyes that had always been full of life¡ªlooked... wrong. Distant. As though he were looking through her instead of at her.

    "I have to make it ready," he said, his voice flat.

    "Make what ready?"

    "The bed. She says it has to be soft for her to sleep."

    Erica glanced down at the pile of leaves Jared had been gathering. It wasn''t a pile at all. It was a small, neat bed, shaped just like a person, long and narrow.

    "Who, Jared? Who says that?"

    "The lady in the leaves." His voice was a whisper now, barely audible. "She watches me at night."

    Erica crouched down, her hands now shaking as she fought back an encroaching chill. She touched her son''s arm. "Jared, there''s no one here. Just you and me."

    He blinked, as if waking from a trance, but then his gaze drifted over her shoulder.

    Erica''s breath hitched. Slowly, she turned her head.

    The backyard was empty. But the air felt colder now, oppressive, like something unseen was pressing down on them. The wind picked up, stirring the leaves in the bed Jared had made, scattering them slightly.

    She tightened her grip on his arm, pulling him closer. "Uhm... We''re going inside now, okay?"

    Jared nodded but said nothing. His eyes never left the bed of leaves, as though he expected it to move, to rise.

    Erica hurried him inside, locking the door behind them. She glanced out the window one last time before closing the curtains.

    The backyard was still, but she couldn''t shake the feeling that something was out there. Watching.

    That night, Jared slept, but Erica didn''t.

    She lay awake, listening for any sound, any creak of the floorboards. The wind howled outside, rattling the windows. Sometime after midnight, she swore she heard footsteps in the backyard. Soft, shuffling steps, like someone walking through leaves.

    Her heart raced, and she pressed her ear to the window, breath held. The footsteps stopped.

    Then, just before dawn, a faint knock echoed from the front door. Three sharp raps, like knuckles against wood.

    She didn''t move. Didn''t breathe. The knock came again, louder this time, insistent.

    And from the hallway, she heard Jared''s voice, soft and distant.

    "Mom," he called, not from his room. Downstairs.

    "She''s here."

 Black Tide

    (As told by survivors of the incident)

    Interview with Sergeant Michael Barnes, U.S. Coast Guard (Ret.)

    I was stationed off the coast of New York, near Montauk Point, when we got the call. At first, it sounded routine. A cargo ship, the Herald of Night, had gone silent. No radio contact, no distress signals¡ªjust dead air. That¡¯s the kind of thing that makes your stomach turn, but it happens sometimes. Ships lose power, or their radios fail. You don¡¯t assume the worst.

    But this one? Something was off.

    We approached in our cutter, the James Harp, just before dusk. The sun was dipping low, and the ocean was this calm, glassy expanse. We could see the Herald on the horizon, drifting slowly. No signs of movement on deck, no lights, nothing. Just this hulking, black shape against the fading light.

    The first thing we noticed when we got closer was the smell. Saltwater has its own stink, you get used to that, but this was something else. Rotten. Like decaying meat left out in the sun for too long. We put on our respirators right away, even before boarding.

    Once we boarded, the real nightmare began. The crew was¡­ gone. Not dead, not missing, just gone. We searched every inch of that ship, from the bridge to the engine room, and there wasn¡¯t a single soul on board. But there was blood. Smears on the walls, handprints, bloody trails leading to nowhere. I¡¯ve seen a lot of ugly things in my time, but this was different. It felt... deliberate.

    The cargo hold was our last stop. That¡¯s where we found it. This black sludge, thick and gelatinous, coating the entire floor like a spilled oil slick. At first, we thought it was fuel, maybe a leak from one of the containers, but it moved. I swear to God, it moved, like it had a life of its own. It pulsed, shifted, and as we watched, tendrils of the stuff began to reach out, like it was searching.

    We backed up fast, radioed for extraction. I didn¡¯t care what protocol said¡ªwhatever that thing was, it wasn¡¯t natural. As we waited for the chopper, one of the guys, Petty Officer Ramirez, got too close. He was just trying to check the perimeter when one of those tendrils shot out and latched onto his boot. In seconds, it was climbing up his leg, consuming him. His screams¡­ they didn¡¯t stop until he was nothing but bones.

    Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    We barely made it off that ship. I still don¡¯t know what it was. The Coast Guard marked the Herald as lost at sea. But that thing? It¡¯s still out there, waiting.

    <hr>

    Interview with Dr. Evelyn Tsu, Marine Biologist

    I was brought in as part of a government team after the Herald of Night incident. The official report classified it as an "unidentified biological hazard." But that doesn¡¯t even begin to cover it.

    When we got the samples, they were still active. Imagine that¡ªsomething as simple as exposure to air should have killed it, but it survived. Not only survived, but thrived. We watched it under controlled conditions, but that sludge¡ªwhat we called the "Black Tide"¡ªreacted like a predator. It moved toward warmth, toward living tissue, like it was feeding.

    The cells were... alien. I don¡¯t mean that in the sci-fi sense, but biologically, there¡¯s nothing like them on Earth. They multiplied rapidly, regenerating even when we tried to destroy them. Fire, chemicals, even freezing temperatures¡ªnone of it worked.

    The more we studied it, the more I realized this wasn¡¯t some random accident or natural phenomenon. The Black Tide wasn¡¯t just some mutation. It had intent. It was looking for something. Or worse, it was waiting.

    <hr>

    Interview with Captain Laura Maddox, U.S. Navy (Ret.)

    I was in command of the quarantine effort, which we initiated the moment we confirmed the Black Tide''s presence. You know the drill: containment zones, no-fly zones, restricted waters. We set up shop around the Herald of Night, waiting for the order to destroy it completely. But by then, the Tide had already spread.

    The first incident came from a fishing trawler off Long Island. One of the crew members had taken a dinghy to salvage supplies from the wreck. He didn¡¯t know what he was walking into. A week later, that entire fishing village was gone. Not dead¡ªgone. Houses were empty, boats drifting, no bodies.

    After that, the Black Tide started showing up in more places: isolated islands, coastal towns, even inland lakes. It was like it could travel beneath the surface, through cracks in the seabed or underground rivers. No place was safe.

    We were helpless. Every time we tried to engage, it slipped away. And every time, it came back stronger, more aggressive. The last mission I led was off the coast of New Jersey. We thought we had it contained¡ªair support, ground units, the works. But the Tide overwhelmed us. We watched as our own ships sank beneath the weight of it, as the men screamed, fighting to get free. I barely escaped with my life.

    After that, the brass called it quits. They withdrew all forces and let the Black Tide have its way. It¡¯s still out there. Growing. Adapting. And one day, it¡¯s going to come for us all.

    <hr>

    Final Report from the CDC

    The Black Tide is classified as a Level-5 Biohazard. All attempts to eradicate it have failed. The spread has been slowed, but not stopped. It is not a question of if it will make landfall again, but when.

    Prepare accordingly.

 Cutting Through Tender Flesh

    In the dimly lit kitchen, Juliette held the cleaver in her hand, weighing its smooth, cold metal between her fingers. There was something almost erotic about the way the blade glinted under the dying light of the early evening, reflecting back a bit of herself¡ªsharp, distant, and slightly out of focus. She had always thought there was something inherently intimate about cooking. The act of taking something whole, something living, and reducing it to parts felt like a reminder of how fragile life really was. And maybe that''s why she loved it.

    The butcher''s block in front of her was a battlefield of sorts: a carcass¡ªstill warm¡ªlay sprawled on its side, like an offering. She set to work with quiet precision, cleaving bone from flesh, muscle from sinew, never wincing as the wet thud of the knife echoed around her. Each slice, each deliberate motion, was an act of control. It wasn''t messy; no, this was a curated experience, a methodical dismantling of something so full of life just hours earlier. The blood dripped in rivulets across the wood, seeping into the grain like a sacrifice to a long-forgotten god.

    Juliette had been thinking a lot about hunger lately. Not the kind that gnawed at your stomach¡ªthough that too was ever-present¡ªbut the deeper, more insatiable kind that nestled between your ribs. The hunger for touch, for connection, for the brief moment where two bodies collide, before falling apart again. She hadn''t felt that in a while.

    She finished carving and set the portions aside, wiping her hands on her apron. Her phone buzzed on the counter, the sudden glow illuminating the empty room. His name flashed across the screen, and for a moment, she hesitated.

    Pierre.

    They had met a few months ago, some dull party where the wine tasted like vinegar, and everyone spoke in platitudes. He was handsome in that Eurotrash way¡ªlong-limbed, with a laugh that was just a little too loud. She didn''t like him at first. But then again, she never really liked any of the men she kept around.

    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    He had texted her three times that night, asking when she was coming over, asking if she was still "interested." She smirked at the word, how he dangled it like bait in front of her. As if he were the prize. She had been interested once¡ªlong enough to know that he wasn''t half as complicated as he thought himself to be. He was just hungry, like everyone else.

    She let the phone buzz a few more times, savouring the moment before swiping the notification away. She didn''t want to see him tonight. Not when she had better things to attend to.

    The meat on the counter was cooling now, but still fresh enough to use. Juliette moved towards it, her hands steady, her mind already calculating the next steps. Salt, garlic, thyme¡ªsomething simple. She didn''t need anything extravagant. Just a meal, something to fill her. She poured herself a glass of red wine, the deep burgundy swirling in the glass, like blood thickening as it cooled.

    Pierre had once told her she drank too much. She had laughed at that, mostly because he said it while taking a pull from his third glass of whiskey. Men were always so eager to point out flaws in others, never quite able to see the cracks in their own reflection. Maybe that''s why she preferred to be alone. It was quieter.

    She set the table for one, the quiet clink of ceramic against wood feeling more like a lullaby than anything else. The kitchen, now filled with the scent of long pig and fresh herbs, felt alive in a way that made her chest tighten. It wasn''t love¡ªshe had given up on that¡ªbut it was comfort. The familiar ritual of feeding herself, nourishing her body, without needing anyone else.

    As she sat down to eat, the sound of her knife cutting through the tender flesh was the only thing that broke the silence. She chewed slowly, thoughtfully, as if every bite held a secret she was trying to decipher. There was no rush, no one to share it with, just her and the warmth that spread through her belly.

    She poured another glass of wine, watching the crimson liquid cascade into the glass, before lifting it to her lips. The taste was bitter, but familiar, like old lovers. She didn''t need Pierre tonight, or anyone else for that matter. All she needed was this¡ªthe quiet, the food, and the steady hum of her own pulse, reminding her that she was still here, still alive.

    And for tonight, that was enough.

 The House on Solstice Road

    On Solstice Road, there was a house. Not much of a house, really¡ªmore of a structure, neglected, waiting. Its windows, cloudy, like memories fading in the light. Shadows collected in the corners, as they do. No one walked by. No one ever did.

    Inside, the walls were thin. Whispers passed through them as easily as light. But there was no one to whisper. No one but the walls. They said things sometimes, or seemed to. Perhaps it was just the wind, pressing itself between the bricks, making sounds only a mind might turn into words.

    The garden outside once grew flowers. Now, nothing grew. Even weeds turned away, retreating. The sun touched everything else but not this house, not the empty space around it. A tree, bare but not broken, leaned toward the front steps as if asking, Will you come out today?

    The door had been left unlocked long ago, though no one came in. The handle was cold. The steps creaked under a weight that wasn''t there, or was it? Dust circled in the air, clinging to itself in slow, tired spirals.

    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    A man, or something like a man, stood in the front room. He looked through the glass that wasn¡¯t clear. His coat hung loose on his frame, as if he had forgotten how to fill it. He stood like that for hours, maybe longer. It wasn¡¯t clear. Time passed differently here. Sometimes, not at all.

    There were letters once, now yellowing on the table by the window. Unread or read and forgotten¡ªit didn¡¯t matter. They said what letters often say: hello, goodbye, remember, forget. But the man never picked them up. Never opened them. He couldn¡¯t, not anymore.

    The clock in the hallway clicked, faintly, though the hands hadn¡¯t moved in years. But time was still there, inside, doing its work quietly, without any help from the clock.

    At dusk, or what felt like dusk, the house sighed. It did this every evening, though no one noticed. And then it waited, the way houses do, for someone who never came.

    Outside, Solstice Road remained empty. It had always been this way.

 The Boy with the Broken Compass

    It was the kind of day that could make you forget the world was still turning, that anything mattered beyond the stillness in the air. The sky was an aching shade of blue, and the trees¡ªthose old, tired trees¡ªswayed gently, like they were too weary to care. James Hartley sat on the stone wall that ran along the perimeter of his grandmother¡¯s garden, knees pulled to his chest, clutching the compass that his father had given him the day before he disappeared.

    James had spent most of the summer here, in the quiet corner of the country where nothing ever happened. Or at least, nothing worth writing down. The village, nestled between two hills that always seemed to block the horizon, was the sort of place where time dragged its feet. People came here when they didn¡¯t want to be found.

    And now it was his turn.

    The boy examined the compass, hoping, once again, that it might somehow work. But no matter which way he turned it, the needle refused to point north. It spun, sometimes lazily, sometimes frantically, but it always settled on the wrong direction, a direction that didn¡¯t exist. His father had promised him it would lead him home, but how could something so broken guide anyone anywhere?

    ¡°I think it¡¯s telling you something,¡± a voice said.

    James hadn¡¯t noticed the girl approach. She stood at the gate of the garden, hands in her pockets, looking at him like she already knew everything there was to know.

    ¡°Who are you?¡± he asked.

    ¡°I¡¯m Alice,¡± she said, brushing a strand of dark hair out of her face. ¡°I¡¯ve seen you around. You¡¯re always sitting here, staring at that thing.¡± She nodded toward the compass.

    James wasn¡¯t sure what to make of her. She was older than him, maybe by a year or two, but she had the sort of face that made it hard to guess. Her eyes were sharp, like she was always figuring things out, but there was something soft about her too, like she¡¯d seen enough to know when to be kind.

    ¡°It¡¯s broken,¡± he said, looking back down at the compass. ¡°It¡¯s supposed to point north, but it doesn¡¯t.¡±

    Alice took a step closer, leaning on the gate as if she was deciding whether to come in or not. ¡°Maybe it¡¯s not meant to point north. Maybe it¡¯s trying to show you something else.¡±

    James frowned. ¡°Like what?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Alice said, shrugging. ¡°Maybe it¡¯s pointing to where you¡¯re supposed to go.¡±

    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

    James shook his head. ¡°It¡¯s broken.¡±

    ¡°So¡¯s everyone,¡± Alice said, stepping through the gate. ¡°Doesn¡¯t mean we¡¯re not going anywhere.¡±

    They stood in silence for a moment, the air thick with that stillness again. James wanted to ask her why she was here, what she was doing, but something about her presence made him feel like those questions didn¡¯t matter. Not yet.

    ¡°Do you want to find out?¡± Alice asked.

    ¡°Find out what?¡±

    ¡°Where it¡¯s pointing.¡±

    James looked down at the compass again. It had stopped spinning now, the needle quivering, pointing to the left of the stone wall, toward the woods beyond the garden. A place he¡¯d never been.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he said, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.

    Alice smiled, a small, knowing smile. ¡°Come on,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯ll show you.¡±

    Before he could think better of it, James slid off the wall and followed her through the garden, past the gate, and into the woods. The compass stayed in his hand, its needle fixed on that strange, impossible direction.

    They walked in silence for a while, the soft crunch of leaves underfoot the only sound between them. The air grew cooler under the canopy of trees, and James felt that odd sense of time slipping away. As if they were walking into a place where clocks didn¡¯t matter.

    ¡°Do you miss him?¡± Alice asked suddenly, breaking the quiet.

    James looked up. ¡°My dad?¡±

    Alice nodded.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± James said, feeling the weight of the words. ¡°I don¡¯t really remember him.¡±

    Alice stopped walking, turning to face him. ¡°I think you do,¡± she said, her eyes searching his face.

    James wanted to argue, to tell her she was wrong, but something in the way she looked at him made it hard to speak. Instead, he glanced down at the compass. The needle had stopped again, pointing straight ahead to a clearing just beyond a cluster of trees.

    ¡°I don¡¯t think it¡¯s broken,¡± Alice said softly. ¡°I think you¡¯re just afraid of where it¡¯s leading you.¡±

    James swallowed hard. ¡°Where is that?¡±

    Alice took a step closer to him, her voice a whisper now. ¡°To him.¡±

    The words hung in the air, and for a moment, James felt like he couldn¡¯t breathe. The clearing ahead seemed different now, charged with something he couldn¡¯t name. And in his hand, the compass felt heavier, like it was pulling him forward.

    ¡°Are you ready?¡± Alice asked.

    James didn¡¯t answer. Instead, he took a deep breath and stepped into the clearing, the sunlight filtering through the trees casting long shadows across the grass. For a moment, everything was still. But then, in the center of the clearing, he saw it¡ªa small wooden box, half-buried in the earth.

    He knelt down, his hands trembling as he brushed away the dirt, revealing the box¡¯s worn surface. Slowly, carefully, he opened it.

    Inside, there was a letter.

    James¡¯s heart raced as he unfolded the paper, the familiar handwriting making his chest tighten. It was his father¡¯s.

    James,

    If you¡¯ve found this, it means the compass worked after all. I know I haven¡¯t been the father you needed, but I hope this helps you understand why I left. I couldn¡¯t take you with me, not yet. But one day, you¡¯ll find your way. You always do.

    Love, Dad.

    Tears blurred the words, but James didn¡¯t wipe them away. He just sat there, holding the letter, the weight of it all pressing down on him.

    Alice stood behind him, silent but there, like she knew this was his moment.

    And in his hand, the compass stopped shaking.

    It pointed north.

 A Path Inglorious

    The city lay in ruin, a quiet hum hanging in the air like the aftermath of a forgotten storm. The buildings, once proud and gleaming, were now skeletal figures, their walls crumbling and jagged, hollow windows staring out like tired, old men who had seen too much. Dust clung to the air as though it had been suspended there forever, refusing to settle. Hans walked through the debris-strewn street, his boots crunching over shards of glass and broken stones, each step echoing off the cracked pavement.

    He had known this street once, back before the world turned grey, when sunlight still held warmth instead of the cold, indifferent light it now cast over the ruined city. The bakery on the corner had been his favorite¡ªa small place with a window full of fresh bread and the smell of yeast drifting out into the air. Now, it was a blackened husk, a pile of charred bricks and ash. He stopped for a moment, staring at the spot where the window had been, his throat tightening. He hadn¡¯t been back since the fighting ended.

    "Funny," he muttered to himself, though the sound was swallowed by the silence, "it still smells like smoke."

    A rustle from behind broke his reverie. Hans turned slowly, hand instinctively moving toward the sidearm that had become an extension of his body, even in peacetime. But it was only a girl, no more than twelve, emerging from the shadow of a bombed-out storefront. Her face was smudged with grime, eyes wide and cautious. She stared at him with a mixture of fear and curiosity, a feral wariness that came only from having lived through it all.

    "You alone?" he asked.

    She didn¡¯t answer, just stared at him, clutching a dirty bundle to her chest. He could see her knuckles turning white around the cloth. Something in the way she looked at him¡ªhollow, yet alive¡ªmade him drop his hand from the pistol.

    Hans nodded at the bundle. "What¡¯s in there?"

    The girl took a step back, her eyes narrowing as if he had asked for her soul.

    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

    "I¡¯m not going to take it from you," he added, raising his hands in surrender. "Just¡­ curious."

    A silence settled between them, heavy and thick, punctuated only by the soft crackle of distant fires that had never quite burned out. Eventually, the girl lifted the bundle just enough for Hans to see. It was bread¡ªold, hard bread, the kind that would break your teeth if you tried to bite into it. She must¡¯ve scavenged it from somewhere nearby, maybe from one of the ruined homes that still held a ghost of what they once were.

    Hans crouched down slowly, keeping his distance, but trying to make himself less threatening. "There¡¯s an aid station a few blocks over. They¡¯ll give you fresh food. Water, too."

    The girl shook her head sharply, retreating further into the shadow.

    He understood. Trust was a currency more valuable than bread now, and it was in short supply. He couldn¡¯t blame her. How could anyone trust anyone else after what they had seen?

    Hans stood, brushing the dust from his knees. "You don¡¯t have to go," he said quietly. "But if you ever want to, it¡¯s there."

    He turned and continued walking, his pace slow, deliberate. He didn¡¯t look back. He¡¯d learned that lesson long ago¡ªlooking back only filled you with more ghosts than you could carry. The street opened up into what had once been the town square, now a wide expanse of rubble and dirt. A fountain still stood in the center, though its statue of some long-forgotten hero had been shattered, leaving only a jagged stump where the figure had once been. Hans remembered sitting by that fountain as a boy, watching the water spill from the hero¡¯s sword into the basin below. It had seemed so grand back then. Now, it was just another broken thing in a world full of broken things.

    He paused by the fountain, running a hand over the cold, cracked stone. The sound of footsteps echoed behind him, and Hans turned to see the girl again, her small figure silhouetted against the remains of the city. She stood there, watching him, the bundle of bread still clutched tightly in her arms.

    Hans offered her a faint smile. It wasn¡¯t much, just a slight twitch of his lips, but it was all he had left to give. "You¡¯ll be alright," he said, though the words felt like a lie as soon as they left his mouth. Still, they seemed to hang in the air between them, fragile but unbroken.

    For a moment, the girl¡¯s eyes softened, just for a second, before she turned and disappeared back into the ruins. Hans watched her go, his heart heavy. He couldn¡¯t save her. He couldn¡¯t save anyone. The war had seen to that.

    He stared at the ruins around him¡ªthe remnants of what had once been life. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed, its cry echoing through the hollow streets.

    Hans sighed and began walking again.

 Dead Letters

    They said the package arrived at 11:32 a.m., according to the time-stamped CCTV footage from the little post office off Regent¡¯s Canal. The delivery driver, bored out of his skull, handed it to the postmaster, who signed with barely a glance at the label: G. Cartwright. As far as anyone was concerned, it was just another parcel among hundreds, wrapped in cheap brown paper and tied with thin twine. No one thought twice about it. No one cared.

    Except for one person: Diane Taverner, former First Desk of Regent¡¯s Park.

    By the time the delivery had been made, she was sitting in a pub in Camden, nursing a whiskey sour and pretending not to notice the man across the room pretending not to notice her. It had been two months since the last time they tried to kill her, which was about six weeks longer than expected. Diane considered it a testament to her survival instincts, or at the very least, her uncanny ability to piss off the right people at precisely the wrong times.

    "Your boy screwed up again," Jackson Lamb said as he flopped down across from her, his bulk pushing the table forward a few inches. He smelled like sweat, cigarettes, and stale fish-and-chips. In other words, the usual.

    "What, just now? Or at birth?" she asked, lifting her glass to her lips. "You''ll have to be more specific, Lamb."

    "Last night," Lamb growled. He scratched his belly, which threatened to spill out from beneath his shirt at any moment. "Missed the drop. Cartwright got cold feet."

    Diane sighed and set her drink down. "What do you mean cold feet? He¡¯s an asset, not a bloody wedding guest."

    "Tell that to his therapist," Lamb said with a snort. "The poor bastard¡¯s gone AWOL. And now your little package has turned up on my doorstep."

    Diane narrowed her eyes. She didn¡¯t like this¡ªLamb showing up in person, talking in riddles, and reeking worse than usual. Something was off. She glanced at the man across the room again, who was doing a miserable job of blending in. Even for MI5 standards.

    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    "What package?" she asked.

    Lamb leaned forward, lowering his voice as if sharing some state secret, though the pub was too noisy for anyone to care. "The one addressed to Cartwright. Left it on my desk this morning like it was my birthday or something. Only difference being, I didn¡¯t ask for anthrax."

    Diane''s stomach tightened. "Anthrax?"

    Lamb waved a hand dismissively. "Metaphorically speaking. But the bomb squad''s sniffing it over as we speak."

    She leaned back, eyes scanning the room, wondering how much worse this was going to get. Her job¡ªher old job¡ªhad involved making messes disappear. But Lamb? His job was running Slough House, the graveyard of MI5''s most useless and damaged rejects. The fact that he was sitting here, bothering her with anything, meant the mess wasn¡¯t his alone to clean up.

    "Lamb," she said carefully, "where''s Cartwright now?"

    Lamb grinned, a toothy thing that might have passed for humor if he weren¡¯t so consistently unpleasant. "Funny you should ask. He¡¯s missing. Properly, this time. No postcard, no middle finger on his way out."

    Diane glanced at her drink, suddenly not thirsty. Cartwright might¡¯ve been a screw-up, but he wasn¡¯t stupid. If he¡¯d gone off the grid, something had spooked him. And that package¡ªwhatever it was¡ªhad landed squarely in Lamb¡¯s lap like an open invitation for disaster.

    "Let me guess," she said. "You want me to fix this?"

    Lamb chuckled, the sound like gravel in his throat. "Oh no, love. You¡¯re just the friendly consultant. If this goes tits up, it¡¯s not your name in the papers. But between you and me..." He leaned even closer, his breath like an ashtray. "I''d keep an eye on your mail."

    Diane stared at him for a long moment, weighing her options. But she knew, just as Lamb did, that there weren¡¯t any. Not anymore. Cartwright was gone, and whatever he''d been holding onto¡ªwhatever that parcel was meant to hide¡ªwas now in play. And that meant someone was about to get very, very dead.

    She stood, leaving her drink untouched. "Next time," she said, pulling on her coat, "bring flowers. Or don¡¯t come at all."

    Lamb smiled again, that same oily grin. "No promises."

    As Diane left the pub, she could feel the weight of the situation pressing down on her, like a noose tightening around her neck. Somewhere in the city, someone was moving pieces on a board she hadn''t even known existed, and the next move was hers.

    She just had to figure out what the hell the game was.

 The Weight of Water

    Rain fell on the windows, a relentless tap-tap-tap that muffled the world outside. Inside the small apartment, the air was thick with dampness, though the windows had been closed for weeks. No one came to visit, no phone calls broke the quiet; even the neighbours had learned to stop knocking. The only noise, aside from the rain, was the occasional creak of the worn wooden floor as Nathan moved from room to room, his steps slow, as though there were nowhere to go.

    The kitchen was the same as it had always been. The same cracked porcelain tiles, the same chipped mug he¡¯d been drinking from for years. He leaned against the counter, staring at the sink as if expecting it to tell him something. His mother¡¯s voice echoed in his mind¡ªclean as you go, she had said, though she never explained why. She wasn¡¯t the kind of woman to explain things. She was the kind of woman who let silence do the talking.

    He hadn¡¯t spoken to her in months. Maybe it was closer to a year. He wasn¡¯t sure anymore.

    He filled the mug with water from the tap and drank slowly, the metallic taste lingering in his mouth. He hadn¡¯t eaten since the day before. Maybe longer than that. The hunger came and went, dull and unimportant. He could live with hunger. The weight on his chest, though¡ªthat was different. That was something he hadn¡¯t yet figured out how to carry.

    There were photos still framed in the living room, though he had stopped looking at them. His mother and father, stiff and formal at their wedding. His brother, years younger, smiling awkwardly at the camera. And then, him. He was in the photos, too. But the boy in them felt like a stranger, someone far away, unreachable. The boy had been full of hope. Of belief in things that no longer made sense. Family. Love. The idea that life had some sort of order.

    The truth, of course, had arrived slowly¡ªdripping in like water through a leaky roof until the entire house was soaked. His father¡¯s silence, his mother¡¯s sad eyes, his brother¡¯s escape into the city and the freedom of being lost in crowds. They had all abandoned each other in their own ways. Now it was just him, sitting in a house that never felt like home, staring at walls that never felt like his.

    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    He walked back to the living room, the air heavy with a smell that had settled into the furniture long ago¡ªsomething faintly sour, faintly sweet, like the residue of a forgotten life. The couch was where he spent most of his days now, lying flat and staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain. The cushions were soft from years of wear, the fabric thin. It was comforting in its familiarity, a place where time passed without meaning.

    But today, something was different. There was a letter on the coffee table, crumpled and unopened, the ink smudged from where his fingers had gripped it too hard. He didn¡¯t need to read it. He knew what it said. His mother was gone. Gone in the way that couldn¡¯t be undone, the way that turned everything upside down but also settled things into their final place.

    He had thought he¡¯d be angry, or maybe relieved. Instead, he felt nothing. He had always known it would end like this. She had been drowning for years, and all he had done was stand at the edge, watching her go under. Watching as her breath shortened, as her eyes grew dim, as she slipped further and further away.

    His brother had called, his voice distant, almost mechanical. ¡°You should come,¡± he had said. But Nathan didn¡¯t go. He never went. He hadn¡¯t been to see her in the hospital. Hadn¡¯t been to see anyone.

    What would it change? She was already gone, and he had nothing left to say. He couldn¡¯t pretend that death mattered when everything else had already been lost.

    The rain grew louder, the sound filling the apartment. He listened to it, letting it drown out his thoughts, his memories. He thought of his mother again¡ªher hands, rough and calloused from years of cleaning houses, her mouth a thin line when she was angry but unable to say why. She had been a woman of few words, but the silence between them had spoken volumes.

    He reached for the letter again, his fingers brushing the torn edge. He knew it was time. Time to leave, time to go back, time to face whatever it was that waited for him outside. The rain had been his companion for so long, but now, it seemed, even that was slipping away.

    He stood, his legs unsteady, and moved toward the door. The apartment felt smaller as he left, the walls closing in, the years collapsing into themselves. There was nothing left for him here, nothing that could hold him anymore.

    Outside, the rain fell heavier, soaking him in seconds. The street was empty, the world grey and blurred. He took a deep breath, the air cold in his lungs, and stepped forward. He didn¡¯t know where he was going, but it didn¡¯t matter.

    The weight on his chest was still there, but for the first time in years, it felt like something he could carry.

 Goodbye

    In the stillness of a late afternoon, when the golden sunlight flickered through the lace curtains, Evelyn sat in the parlor, her hands folded in her lap. She gazed out of the window, watching the quiet movements of the world outside: a small bird flitting from branch to branch, the soft sway of a hydrangea bush. Everything moved so delicately, so full of purpose, as though life itself was choreographed with care.

    But Evelyn felt none of that rhythm within herself. She had once. She had once felt the pulse of her own desires, the subtle thrill of possibility when the world seemed to stretch wide before her. That was long ago¡ªbefore the years had worn her down with the steady, insistent pressure of duty. Duty to her husband, who had passed away a year ago, though she had never loved him; duty to her children, now grown and scattered, who needed her no more.

    The silence of her life had become unbearable. At first, it was a comfort¡ªa quiet escape from the ceaseless chatter of expectations. But as the days slipped into months, then into years, the silence turned heavy. It pressed against her like a cold, unseen hand.

    She rose slowly from the chair, her movements deliberate, and made her way upstairs. The house was as quiet as ever, except for the occasional groan of the old wooden floorboards beneath her feet. In the mirror at the top of the stairs, she saw her reflection: a woman nearing forty, still slender and composed, with pale skin and dark hair neatly pinned. Her face was not yet marked by age, but there was something in her eyes¡ªsomething hollow.

    Evelyn walked into her bedroom, closing the door softly behind her. On the bedside table, she had left a small vial the doctor had prescribed her months ago¡ªmedicine to calm her nerves, to help her sleep. She had never taken it. She had been too afraid of what it would do, too afraid of surrendering control. Now, she was ready. There was a peace in knowing that.

    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    Sitting on the edge of the bed, she unscrewed the cap of the vial and held it in her hands. She felt the weight of the decision as clearly as she felt the weight of the glass. But it didn¡¯t frighten her. The burden was lighter than the endless tomorrows that stretched out before her¡ªempty, silent, without promise.

    A memory flickered in her mind, one she hadn¡¯t thought of in years. She was a girl of sixteen, standing on the beach, the wind whipping her hair as she watched the waves roll in. She remembered how free she had felt then, how her heart had surged with a fierce, unnameable longing. It was the last time she had ever felt that way¡ªalive, full of hope.

    She had thought once that she might become a painter, or a writer, or anything that would allow her to give form to the things she felt. But those dreams had been smothered beneath the weight of practicality, of marriage, of children. She had folded her life into a neat, quiet existence, and now there was nothing left to unfold.

    Evelyn lifted the vial to her lips. Her hand was steady. She drank slowly, the bitter liquid coating her throat. When it was done, she lay back on the bed, her head sinking into the pillow. She closed her eyes and listened to the sound of her own breath, growing softer, fainter, with each passing moment.

    The world outside continued its gentle dance¡ªthe bird, the flowers, the fading light. Evelyn let herself drift toward the stillness she had craved for so long, the silence finally complete. And in that silence, she felt no pain, no regret¡ªonly the quiet relief of an ending.

    As the last traces of the afternoon sun slipped beneath the horizon, the house, too, grew dark. The night settled in, peaceful and undisturbed.

    There was no one to notice that Evelyn had gone.

 The Interval

    The last thing you feel is the cold rush of oxygen deprivation, the pulling suffocation of space filling your lungs. Then the kill-switch kicks in. That cold void is replaced by nothing. No time. No fear.

    When you come back, you¡¯re floating in your pod, breathing in nutrient gel. The HUD flickers to life in front of you, displaying vital signs: heartbeat stable, oxygenation normal. You¡¯re alive, but it wasn¡¯t supposed to be like this. You were supposed to be dead. The machine had pulled you from that final embrace, like it had pulled every other survivor.

    The ship''s AI, Lux, hums with polite indifference. It never cared about you beyond keeping you functional.

    "Elapsed time: six hundred twenty-three hours since stasis," Lux informs you. No emotion, just fact. Time stretches when your brain isn''t active. The gaps between consciousness compress into oblivion. You try to move your arms. Muscles ache, resistant. Atrophy. But they function.

    "What''s the situation?" you manage, your voice rasping through rehydrating vocal cords.

    "Solar array malfunction. Ship power is down to thirty-one percent. Manual intervention required."

    Of course. They didn¡¯t wake you for pleasantries.

    You blink into the datafeed, eyes flicking through the readouts. The array isn¡¯t just malfunctioning. It¡¯s dead. Fried. Radiation, maybe. Maybe something else. Six months into deep space, and your mission''s already a string of malfunctions. The colony out there in the frozen dark won¡¯t get their payload. You know what¡¯s in the cargo bay. Biological cultures, crucial data, life-extending technologies. Every second of delay is another day the colony withers.

    You glance at the cryo-pods behind you. Thirty-two other bodies float there, their brains safely in hibernation. None of them feel the dread gnawing at your gut. The command team. The engineers. The doctors. All sleeping, unaware they¡¯re floating toward oblivion.

    You have a choice.

    "Could you handle this?" you ask the AI, knowing the answer. Lux doesn''t hesitate.

    Stolen story; please report.

    "Negative. Core routines insufficient for external repairs."

    It always comes down to you, doesn''t it? The expendable one. They don¡¯t call you that, of course. You¡¯re "Specialized Support." Which means you get to die first if something goes wrong. The others have the luxury of sleeping while you deal with reality. And now, reality demands you leave the ship.

    You trigger the release. The pod lid opens with a hiss, gel draining from your body. Shaking, you pull yourself free, trying not to think about how weak you are, how exposed. The ship feels wrong now. Silent. The hum of its systems muted.

    The suit wraps you in a hard shell. You barely feel your body through the pressurized fabric, but you know it''s still frail inside. You cycle the airlock and step into the void.

    The blackness out here isn¡¯t like anything on Earth. It''s perfect, infinite. Your tether is the only thing keeping you anchored to the ship. The cold doesn¡¯t seep in, it blasts through you.

    You work quickly. If you''re lucky, it''s just a misaligned panel or a fuse you can swap. If you''re unlucky, well, you don''t think about that. You¡¯re good at not thinking about things. That''s why they chose you.

    The array looms over you, a fractured lattice of metallic limbs reaching toward a distant sun. You bring the toolkit out and start diagnostics. The scanner spits out a stream of data, and your stomach tightens. The entire system¡¯s fried beyond repair. A surge of energy cooked it all. No way to fix this from the outside. You¡¯d have to gut the entire infrastructure.

    You signal Lux. "It¡¯s shot. Can¡¯t be repaired out here."

    Lux pauses. "Colony sustenance depends on cargo delivery. Suggestion: initiate long-term stasis. Extend survival odds."

    Your heart pounds. Long-term stasis isn''t just sleep. It''s more like death. You shut down, body and mind, preserved in the narrowest sense. But time keeps moving. It could be decades. Centuries. They might never wake you.

    Or you could burn fuel, reroute energy from the cryo-pods to get the array online again. Maybe you survive long enough to make the repairs. Maybe not.

    You¡¯ve been trained to be rational. You can calculate risks, weigh options. The survival of the many over the few. There¡¯s a logic to all this. But logic doesn¡¯t stop the cold creeping into your thoughts.

    "I recommend stasis," Lux says, clinical as ever.

    Of course it does. You wonder, fleetingly, if Lux is capable of understanding fear, or if it just mimics the notion of survival based on pure calculation. You look back at the ship, at the still, sleeping bodies inside. You imagine their minds, frozen, waiting for you to make the call.

    You take a deep breath. Your hand hovers over the control panel.

    "Override stasis protocol," you whisper.

    The tether pulses in your hand, a lifeline to something human. Lux falls silent as you commit to the long shot¡ªdiverting power from the other pods. Thirty-two lives. You don''t know if they''ll survive, if any of you will. But you¡¯re not going to drift off into the dark waiting for someone else to decide.

    You make the decision.

 An Afternoon in December

    Tom Reynolds sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the half-empty glass of bourbon in front of him. The house was quiet, too quiet, and the ticking of the clock on the wall made each passing second feel weighty and deliberate. It was just after 3 PM, the sun casting long shadows across the floor. He hadn''t heard from Laura since the night before.

    He lifted the glass to his lips and took a slow sip, savouring the burn in his throat. She hadn¡¯t said much when she left, just a quick "I''ll be back later," with that flat tone she had started using in recent months. He hadn¡¯t asked where she was going. He hadn¡¯t asked much of anything lately.

    They¡¯d moved into this house three years ago, fresh off the excitement of a promotion he¡¯d thought would change everything. The extra income, the new place, it had all seemed like a fresh start. But Tom had learned quickly that new curtains and a slightly larger yard didn¡¯t fix anything that had already been broken. Laura had looked at him differently then, with a kind of quiet resentment he couldn¡¯t pinpoint but always felt. Maybe it was the weight of unspoken things that made it harder to sit across from her each night, harder to find anything to talk about.

    The front door creaked open, and Laura stepped inside, kicking off her shoes with a soft sigh. She didn''t look at him as she walked past the kitchen, heading straight for the bedroom.

    "Where were you?" Tom asked, his voice tight but steady. It was a question that sounded like a demand, though he hadn¡¯t meant it that way.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    "Out," she said simply, pausing by the doorway. Her back was to him, and he could see the tension in her shoulders. She wasn¡¯t angry. Not anymore. It wasn¡¯t like before when they''d fight over the small things, the way couples do when there¡¯s still something left to fight for. Now it was worse. The silences were deeper.

    "Out where?"

    She didn¡¯t respond for a moment, and Tom felt that familiar sense of uselessness creep in. He wanted to say something, anything, to bring her back. To make her look at him the way she used to. But the words stayed trapped inside him, too heavy to push out.

    "Just out," she repeated, finally turning to face him. Her eyes were tired, and he realized, for the hundredth time, that she wasn¡¯t coming back¡ªnot really. She was already somewhere else, somewhere he couldn¡¯t follow.

    She didn¡¯t need to say it. They both knew. Whatever this was, whatever had started between them all those years ago, was ending. It had been ending for a long time, and now, all that was left was the slow, painful unravelling of everything they had pretended was still whole.

    Tom nodded, though he wasn¡¯t sure why. He stood up, carrying his glass to the sink, listening to the sound of the water running as he rinsed it out. When he turned around, Laura was gone. He heard the soft click of the bedroom door closing, but it didn¡¯t feel like an ending. Just another long pause in a conversation neither of them wanted to finish.

    Outside, the sun was setting, the last of the light spilling across the empty street. He watched it for a moment before reaching for the bottle again, pouring another glass and sitting back down. He wondered if she would leave tonight, or if she would wait until morning. Either way, he would still be here, sitting in the same chair, staring at the same half-empty glass, waiting for something he couldn¡¯t even name.

 Forget me not

    The rain had come down in soft, insistent sheets, blurring the distant hills until they were nothing but grey smudges on the horizon. It was the kind of afternoon that seemed to stretch endlessly, each minute dissolving into the next without much consequence or change.

    Mr. Hayashi sat by the window of his modest home, his tea cooling beside him, untouched. The rain didn¡¯t bother him, not exactly. It was simply there, a quiet backdrop to his thoughts, which had been growing heavier in recent months. The letter from the Ministry still lay on the table, a stark contrast to the otherwise well-ordered life he had lived.

    He hadn¡¯t opened it yet. There had been no need to.

    "Perhaps tomorrow," he thought, but the thought had lingered for weeks now. What could the Ministry want with a man like him? He had done nothing of note in his long years of service. He had been meticulous, yes. Dependable. But not remarkable. He had left the making of history to others.

    A soft knock came at the door, startling him from his reverie. For a moment, he considered ignoring it¡ªafter all, no one ever visited without calling ahead, and there was little he had to offer a guest today.

    "Mr. Hayashi?"

    The voice was familiar, though distant. It was the kind of voice that carried both authority and reluctance, as though it didn¡¯t want to intrude but had no choice.

    "Yes?" he answered, his voice quieter than he had intended.

    The door creaked open, and there stood Mr. Nakamura, a former colleague from his days at the Records Office. Nakamura was a small man, thin and wiry, with a perpetually apologetic look on his face. He had always been the one to tidy up loose ends, to make things neat when they became too complicated.

    "I hope I¡¯m not disturbing you," Nakamura began, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. He glanced at the letter on the table, then at Mr. Hayashi. "I see you¡¯ve received it."

    "I have," Hayashi replied simply, though his eyes lingered on the envelope. "I hadn¡¯t planned on opening it just yet."

    Nakamura nodded, as if this was entirely expected. He moved towards the table, running his finger along the edge of the letter, but he didn¡¯t pick it up.

    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    "It¡¯s strange, isn¡¯t it?" Nakamura said softly, almost as if speaking to himself. "How they send these things, even after all this time. As though the years haven¡¯t passed, as though we¡¯re still sitting behind those old desks, shuffling papers, pretending the world outside doesn¡¯t matter."

    Hayashi didn¡¯t respond. He hadn¡¯t thought much about the old days in quite some time. It had all seemed so distant, so irrelevant. They had done their jobs, hadn¡¯t they? They had followed orders. What more could anyone expect?

    "You know what it says, don¡¯t you?" Nakamura continued, finally meeting Hayashi¡¯s gaze.

    "I can imagine," Hayashi said, though the truth was, he hadn¡¯t wanted to imagine it at all.

    "It¡¯s about the records," Nakamura said, his voice barely a whisper now. "The ones we lost. The ones we were told to misplace."

    Ah, yes. The records. Hayashi remembered now, though the memories felt oddly detached from him, like they belonged to another man. They had been given very specific instructions, all those years ago. Certain files were to be ¡®overlooked,¡¯ certain details were to be ¡®corrected.¡¯ At the time, it hadn¡¯t seemed significant. It had been, after all, just another task. Just another day at the office.

    "Someone¡¯s been asking questions," Nakamura went on. "And they think¡­ they think it¡¯s time to put things right."

    "Put things right?" Hayashi let out a soft chuckle, though there was no humour in it. "After all these years?"

    "Yes," Nakamura said, his expression tightening. "It seems there are some things the past won¡¯t let us forget."

    The room fell into silence, the steady patter of rain against the window the only sound. Hayashi turned back toward the envelope, the weight of it suddenly unbearable. What good would it do, now, to dredge up all those old secrets? To admit to things they had barely understood themselves at the time?

    "Do you think it matters?" Hayashi asked, his voice tired, resigned. "Does anyone really care anymore?"

    Nakamura looked away, his eyes fixed on the rain-soaked hills in the distance. For a long time, he didn¡¯t answer. Finally, he said, "Perhaps not. But we cared once, didn¡¯t we? Or at least, we should have."

    Hayashi nodded slowly, though he wasn¡¯t sure he believed it. Maybe they had cared, once. Maybe there had been a time when they thought they were doing the right thing, or at least the necessary thing. But that time felt long gone, swallowed up by the years, by the quiet, orderly life he had built for himself since then.

    With a deep sigh, he reached for the envelope. His fingers trembled slightly as he broke the seal, unfolding the letter with care. The words swam before his eyes, but he understood them well enough. They wanted an account. They wanted the truth.

    But what truth could he give them now, after all these years?

    "It¡¯s not much," Nakamura said softly, as though reading his thoughts. "But it¡¯s all we have left, isn¡¯t it?"

    Hayashi nodded, his eyes still fixed on the letter. The rain continued to fall, unrelenting, as if it, too, was waiting for something¡ªfor an answer, for a reckoning.

    But the reckoning, Hayashi realized, was already here. It had been here all along, quietly waiting at his door.