When I opened my eyes, I was hit with that eerie sense of familiarity. You know that feeling when something seems both strange and familiar at the same time? That’s exactly how it was. The ground beneath me was uneven, soft with decaying leaves and moss, and there was this heavy, musty smell of rotting wood and damp earth in the air. The place felt wrong, yet somehow it felt right, too.

It wasn’t the clearing I knew so well—the one where the coffin always waited for me. No, this was a different part of the forest. A deeper, darker place. The trees around me were twisted and gnarled, their trunks thick with age. Their limbs reached out like skeletal hands, clawing at the sky, like they were searching for something lost. The canopy overhead was so dense, it blocked out most of the light, leaving only a dim, gray glow that gave everything an unsettling, otherworldly feel.

My body ached. It was the kind of ache that made it feel like I’d been walking for days—my limbs heavy, exhaustion seeping deep into my bones. I took a step forward, trying to make sense of everything, but my mind was spinning. The air felt thicker, like it was pressing down on me, and the ground was slick with wet leaves. But there was something else, too—something that made my thoughts feel disconnected, like I was struggling to hold onto something just beyond my reach.

Where am I?

The moment the question formed in my mind, I felt the answer. It hit me, sharp and cold, like an ice cube dropping straight down my spine. My heartbeat picked up speed, thumping loudly in my ears. I was here before. This place—it was the same one I had seen in my dreams. The dark forest. The twisted trees. The faces that had always stared at me from the shadows. This was the place where I had imagined the end would come. The clearing. The coffin. The loop.

It was all here.

The fog around me thickened, swirling like it was alive, wrapping itself around my legs. I didn’t know why, but something—maybe a force, maybe a pull—was guiding me forward. It was like I was walking toward something, toward them. There were figures standing motionless in the distance. At first, they were blurry, just shadows caught in the mist, but as I took each step, they started to take shape.

They were waiting for me.

When I was close enough, one of them turned toward me. I froze. My heart raced in my chest, pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. The figure was dressed in tattered, ragged clothes, and its face was hidden under the shadow of a hood. But there was something about the way it moved—something in the stillness of its presence—that made my blood run cold. It wasn’t just the figure. It was what I felt when it turned its gaze on me. It was as if it had been waiting for me all this time.

Then it stepped forward, and its face came into view. My breath caught in my throat. It was my face. My own face, only worn and weathered, like it had been through years—maybe decades—of torment. The dark eyes that stared at me were the same as mine. I could see the same torment, the same sorrow. The same hollowed-out look I had seen every time I looked in a mirror, like I was staring at the ghost of my future.

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And then, it spoke. My own voice, only softer, darker, with a kind of eerie resonance that seemed to come from deep within the earth itself.

“Adam,” it said, its voice almost a whisper, but heavy with an undeniable weight. “You’ve come.”

Hearing my own name like that sent a jolt through my chest, and I instinctively took a step back. How could it be me? How could this figure in front of me be... me? And yet, as its hollow gaze locked onto mine, as it knew me, I understood. This was me. They were all me.

Every single one of them.

Then another figure stepped forward. This one was older, his clothes even more worn, his posture hunched under the weight of years spent wandering this cursed place. His face was tired, his eyes dim, but there was something else there—something that resembled understanding. Maybe even sorrow. He looked at me like he knew everything that was about to happen. And in his gaze, I saw it—my own future, stretched out before me, a version of myself I hadn’t yet become.

“You can’t escape, Adam,” the older version of me said, his voice low but firm. “Not anymore. Not here. We’re all part of this place now. The sooner you accept it, the sooner the cycle ends.”

His words hit me like a physical blow. I could feel the weight of them settling deep into my chest, making it hard to breathe. The forest around me seemed to grow quieter, the air heavier. The mist thickened, and I could feel it tugging at my limbs, pulling me deeper into the forest. The trees seemed to grow taller, their branches stretching down like arms, trying to pull me into their embrace.

The figures around me didn’t move. They stood still, watching, their faces obscured by their hoods. I could feel their eyes on me, the weight of their gaze pressing in on me like the forest itself was waiting for something to happen.

“Join us,” the older version of me said again, this time softer, like he was speaking to a lost child. “You’ve always been here. And you will always be here.”

My chest tightened. I turned, looking at the other figures. They were everywhere now—dozens of them, maybe more, all standing in perfect silence. Each one was me. Every version of me, in different stages, different ages, different versions of the same endless loop. It was too much to process. But I couldn’t deny it. There were no words. Only the rustling of the leaves and the faintest shift in their posture as they waited. Watching me.

“Dead men tell the best stories,” one of them said. The words cut through the silence like a knife. They echoed in my mind, vibrating deep inside me. It was a wound that would never heal.

The realization crashed over me like a wave. The cycle. The loop. It was always there, always waiting. Every version of me, every face, every moment—it was all part of the same eternal pattern. There was no way out.

The figures began to fade. Their forms blurred, dissolving into the mist. Their faces lost their clarity, becoming nothing more than shadows in the fog. Their voices lingered in my mind, barely audible whispers.

“It’s time,” the first figure said, its voice barely a murmur. “Time to complete the cycle.”

As they faded, the world around me grew darker, the trees nothing more than silhouettes against the void. And as the last echo of their words faded, I knew.

I would always be here. I would always be part of this place. I was the stranger. The wanderer. The one who would invite the next version of myself into the cycle. There was no escape from the forest. There was only the loop. And it would never, ever end.