The Message That Wasn’t There Before
Soren sat in his apartment, the journal open before him. The ink was still fresh.
> The door will open again.
His breath was slow, measured. Too controlled.
Because if he let himself think—truly think—he would spiral.
The city had been rearranging itself around him for days. Maybe longer.
His memories were being rewritten. Maybe erased.
And now, someone—or something—was leaving messages in his own handwriting.
Soren exhaled.
His fingers traced the golden thread in his palm.
It pulsed.
Not randomly. Not aimlessly.
It was waiting.
Waiting for something he could not see.
Or worse—something he could not remember.
The Figure in the Rain
Luthathel greeted him with cold air and the faint mist of morning drizzle.
The city was watching.
Not through its people.
Not through its streets.
Through its silence.
Soren’s footsteps echoed along the damp cobblestones, swallowed quickly by the fog. The newspaper vendor was gone. The shopkeepers, the morning merchants—missing.
The streets were too empty.
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The city was holding its breath.
Then—
At the far end of the street, a figure stood beneath a gas lamp.
Still. Silent.
Their face obscured by the mist.
A hat. A coat.
Soren’s stomach twisted.
He knew what this was.
He knew who this was.
The man who had stopped him at the door that wasn’t there.
Soren turned.
The street behind him was gone.
The buildings had shifted, the road longer than it had been a second ago.
The whispering curled through the fog.
> You are running out of time.
Soren clenched his jaw.
Then he ran.
The Alley That Shouldn’t Exist
The city moved.
The streets did not lead where they should have. The corners stretched too far. The alleys twisted into paths that had never existed before.
And yet—Soren knew where he was going.
Not because he remembered.
But because the city wanted him to go there.
By the time he stopped, his breath was sharp in his chest.
The alley was narrow, walled in by old brick. No way forward. No way back.
And in the center of it—
The door.
Wooden. Old.
Exactly as he had seen it before.
But this time—
It was open.
The Room With No Walls
Soren stepped inside.
The air shifted.
The alley behind him was gone.
There was no room.
No house.
Just space.
Dark. Silent.
The floor beneath him stretched into nothing. The walls—if they existed—were too far to see.
And in the center of it—
A chair.
A single wooden chair.
Someone was sitting in it.
Soren’s breath stopped.
He knew this person.
Not their face.
Not their clothes.
But their presence.
Because it was the same presence he had felt every time he forgot something.
The figure was waiting.
Waiting for him.
Soren swallowed hard.
Then, slowly—the figure raised its head.
And smiled.
The Man With His Own Face
Soren staggered back.
The figure stood.
And Soren saw himself.
His own face.
His own eyes.
His own knowing smile.
Not a perfect reflection.
Not a mirror.
Something else.
The man tilted his head.
“You found me,” he said.
Soren’s pulse slammed.
He tried to speak.
Nothing came out.
The man—his double—stepped forward.
“The city keeps erasing,” he murmured. “But you keep looking.”
His eyes gleamed.
“That’s why I left you a trail.”
Soren’s chest felt tight.
The messages.
The warnings.
Find me before they find you.
The man smiled wider.
“You wrote that, Soren.”
Soren’s fingers dug into his palms. “No. That’s not possible.”
The man chuckled.
“You still don’t understand.”
Soren’s breathing was uneven.
The air felt too thin.
His double leaned in slightly.
“The city has already taken pieces of you,” he murmured. “It’s been doing it for a long time.”
A pause.
“Did you really think this was the first time you’ve tried to find me?”
Soren’s stomach dropped.
The golden thread in his pocket burned.
The man grinned.
“You’ve done this before.”
The Truth That Unravels
Soren shook his head. No. No, that wasn’t possible.
His memories were his.
His thoughts were his.
The city had been changing—but he was still him.
Wasn’t he?
The man—his other self—sighed.
“Tell me, Soren,” he murmured.
“When did you first wake up here?”
The words hit him.
His breath caught.
His mind screeched to a halt.
When?
When had he first woken up in Luthathel?
His jaw clenched. “Weeks ago.”
A heartbeat.
The man’s smile widened.
“No.”
Soren’s head throbbed.
His fingers trembled.
No. That was wrong. That had to be wrong.
Hadn’t he been here for weeks?
Hadn’t he—
Hadn’t he?
His chest tightened.
The air blurred.
The golden thread burned against his palm.
The man leaned closer.
His own face staring back at him.
“You have always been here.”
Soren’s breath stopped.
The golden thread snapped.
And the city collapsed.