I’m nothing special. They know that. They’re still following me.

It’s been weeks now since I tripped over that box and clapped my head into the pail. I passed out, or so they told me. And I certainly did open my eyes at the end. My sister, who was painting with me, assured me my eyes had only stayed shut for a second. No, no, that can’t be, I cried, hoping that whatever dream I had experienced in that moment would unpack its bags and stay a few minutes longer in my mind. I have to get back. But then I looked around. The world was calm and still, and I was sitting on the floor of a half-painted loft. Annaliese, my sister, was looking down at me with a mixture of fear and concern.

Are you alright? She asked, put off by my reaction. Nothing, I replied, but would you get me some ice? She ran off, and by the time she returned, any thoughts of my brief hallucination had been replaced by confusion.

I was alone, alone in a way that I hadn’t been for years.

Years?

I had been painting for a couple hours at most.

Years.

It was just a dream.

Just a dream.

A dream.

A wish.

I wish I had never come to this blighted land. That was my wish. Something didn’t work. Something important.

This isn’t your fiction. This is real life. Go outside and sit in the rose gardens. That’ll ground you.

The gardens are a hundred miles away.

So?

Something was wrong, I decided. I was used to a life I had never lived. If a journey of a hundred miles was as easy as stepping outside, then where had I walked? Why did I know what a wish felt like? Why had I never been alone?

Then my sister returned with a bag of ice for the lump now firmly embedded just above my skull ached. My troubled thoughts fled the dulled pain as the crimson reflection of my shadow against the apple-pink wall twitched and blurred in the edge of my vision. Had I flinched? I must have. Why else would my shadow have moved?

Since that day, although I remember so little of the dream, I have been tormented by shadows. I fear them. When there is nobody else around, I see thorny vines encircling my shadow. They are tightening now. I’ve never seen them tighten. If you see them, ask how the moon changes. They’ll know. It’s wrong. And if yo

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“The contents of this incomplete letter have been the topic of some debate. For context, it was written by a dead woman last June. She did not appear in any official records. She carried no ID, except a certification from our organization signed by a secretary who never existed. There is no other evidence that she or the Annaliese referenced ever existed. No cause of death was ever ascertained. Powers above me have decided that rather than an elaborate hoax, the unknown deceased was simply an employee of an organization much like ours that fell afoul of some supernatural force.”

“If you are as skeptical as you sound, then why are you telling us?”

“An excellent question, recruit. I hope you get used to the answer: powers above me have decided. That’s practically my motto.”

At this point, a brown-haired woman wearing a paint-stained t-shirt and baggy jeans spoke up from behind the instructor.

“Um, I’m not sure why I’m here, but I think I’m in the wrong place.”

One slightly confusing interrogation later, nothing had been learned. The stern trainer had asked a number of questions, reasonable ones:

“What are you doing here?”

“How did you get past security?”

The only response they got was disheartening.

“I don’t know.” At that, the instructor turned to the training group.

“This is why that letter is standard curriculum. Strange things happen here.” Turning to the out-of-place brunette, they asked one more question.

“How does the moon change?”

“It waxes and wanes. What kind of interrogation is this?”

“Not here. The moon fades and brightens.”

“I—what?”

“Class dismissed! Assuming your other instructors sign off, we’re done here! I’ll see you around the office!”

As the crowd of recruits began to flow past, the instructor grabbed the stranger’s arm.

“You’re coming with me. Let’s talk in my office. There’s more privacy there.”

As they walked into a relatively spacious office, the trainer explained that M. and F. King was an insurance contractor. Most of training group from outside would go on to fill the necessary, if distasteful, shoes of salespeople, actuaries, and the like. A few of them would break down under the stress of the role and begin living in their own fantasy worlds. Invariably, they would never appear in the job market again, presumably having become mildly successful authors of outlandish fiction stories on the internet. At this, the paint-stained woman broke in.

“I—that sounds familiar. I’ve seen something like that somewhere before. In stories. . .? No. I haven’t had the time to read a story in years. Not since my sister’s shadow shattered and dragged me into that blighted—.” She fell to her knees, hands sealed over her ears as if to ward of the world around her.

“What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t. It’s Annaliese. What’s yours?”

“Pad, thanks for asking. Our world, the place where you are now, is a place of endings.”

“Tonal shift much?”

“Funny. But you need to know this.” The stern instructor reached into their desk to retrieve a pamphlet.

“This will help if you forget something. You haven’t read in years?”

“Not recreationally. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Having an active imagination helps. A common literary trope is to envision a world as one thing, so it’s worth asking about. Outsiders like yourself sometimes need help. This world is full of unremembered things, lost masterpieces from unknown artists and long-forgotten heroes. More of them here than elsewhere, anyways.”

“And this is common knowledge?”

“Hah! Not hardly. But it’s amazing how hard it is to hide spontaneously appearing people from a building full of freelance actuaries. It’s an open secret around here.”

“And you’re saying I’m free of the—”

“Don’t say it, please. The less we know of the other worlds, the better. Think of this as a retirement community. You’re free of whatever happened there.”

“I’m not. The space between worlds is like a river.”

“What?”

“The force that pushes abandoned heroes inevitably toward this place is a river.”

“What it looks like doesn’t matter.”

“I reversed it to land here. This is the last buoy, the last haven before a waterfall. I slipped when I first got here. I would have been annihilated in the void beyond. I couldn’t let myself go over. Looking into it was like facing a thousand deaths. I couldn’t have chosen otherwise, but I’m afraid I might have caused a bit of a problem for you.”

“Um.”

“Please don’t ask. I can’t do it gain. Whatever power I once had has been washed away. Once the silt settles, people and things will stop appearing here. There are no endings here. Not any more. Only a beginning. We should probably start preparing people to be swept away.”

“I’m just an insurance—”

“Then I’ll do it. Do you have an internet?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. Then all I need is money and a room of my own. Do you need many qualifications to sell insurance?”