August 15th. The sound of cicadas lulled the air into a soft hum, perforated only by the hubbub of traffic and people twenty floors below. In that sweltering heat, a single parcel lay before me, its brown cardboard setting itself apart from the battered tiled floor. It had arrived just a few moments earlier, the courier bringing it into the apartment door. Initially I treated it with caution, I had not ordered anything after all, but discovery as to the sender wrenched my gut with sudden anguish. It was alleged to come from my brother, someone who had gone missing just under half a decade ago. And yet the packaging itself was still new, albeit slightly battered from the journey. The address, scrawled undeniably in his messy handwriting, brought forth a wave of sadness interlaced with nostalgia. Setting it down, I placed my hand gently on top. I was certain that it was a prank, one done in awfully poor taste. But a slither of hope, buried deep within me, tugged at me to open it. Running the boxcutter through the tape, a moment of hesitation halted my hands as I held the opened cardboard. A nervousness, a fear as to what I might find. And then it was gone, pushed aside along with the box panels to reveal what was stored within. A single book confronted me, its leather aged and worn. An unremarkable brown patina binding a wad of yellowed paper. Resting there, it looked modest almost, betraying nothing as to the content it held.

He had always been a somewhat… rebellious character. That had owed itself to the early passing of our parents. Relatives or otherwise could not be traced, so for as long as we had remembered it had always been only the two of us. Forgoing university, I had joined the military immediately after my graduation so that I could offer him the chance I could not afford. That, alongside my many part-time hours during my schooling years, allowed me to sustain us and to put him through two years of medical school. Whilst it was hardly luxurious, it offered us a chance to rebuild our lives; to re-establish a home for us and ensure a comfortable living. That was, until he disappeared. They entered his dorm a week later. The room itself appeared unremarkable, yielding no signs of any disturbance. His belongings littered the apartment as it always had, an “organised chaos” as he used to put it. Everything seemed to indicate his continual residence; his half-prepared soup, set to too low a heat, continued to boil nonchalantly, whereas the defeat screen cycled round and round on his monitor, waiting for further input. Despite an extensive search, followed by thorough police interviews of both fellow students and teaching personnel, no trace of him could be found. Nothing appeared to even hint at anything out of the ordinary. He had just simply. Vanished.

The days blurred after that. I found myself in a daze, moving from one place to another as a means to escape the reality I faced. Military roles turned to mercenary jobs. Morality of my field clouded further and further. The environments themselves changed again and again, until I was barely even sure as to which country I was in. The only relief was the occasional cigarette, the nicotine providing a temporary high to alleviate the numbness I felt. Despite it all, I would always find myself here without fail, in the same apartment on the same day, each and every year. I was never too sure as to the exact reason why, perhaps an attachment to the place we had grown up in, where he had attended school from before departing for the university dormitories. Dusting down and cleaning the apartment became a sort of ritual for me, a cathartic escape from the grief that constantly plagued my mind; a sense of familiarity and the closest to the feeling of home I could find myself in. But it never amounted to anything more than that. Or at least it hadn’t, until now.

August 15th, the same day three years later. The same date that was etched onto the open page that lay before me. The book appeared to be a diary of sorts, dating each entry, chronicling each event that occurred. Some part of me still begged me to deny it, to dismiss it as nothing more than some cruel, callous antic. And yet the handwriting was unquestionably his; the same scrawl meandering across the book’s pages as the one which had dictated the letters he used to write from his dorms all those years ago, now tucked neatly away in the drawer under the table. Gingerly, I picked the book up and my eyes drifted across the page, taking in each and every account he had transcribed. Piece by piece, his words slowly built up a picture of his life. His sudden disappearance, and with it his relocation. Another world, one separated from the reality that we knew. The shock and grief at the revelation. But the faint rekindling of hope, when disclosed about the possibility of return at the end of that long journey. Friends, people he had met along the way. The trials and tribulations that stood in his path. Occasionally, an illustration broke the sea of text; sometimes anatomical diagrams of mythical monsters, others drawings of maps, flora and minerals. But the book itself comprised entirely of his own accounts. His own stories. Stories which seemed so glaringly fictitious, but had nonetheless been authored as fact. And then his final entry, only one week earlier. The last step in his long, three year quest. Cut short by the betrayal of his allies. The discarding of their roles. And of him. The book ended there. There was nothing further to be recorded.

It had long turned to night by the time I regained my composure. By then I had read the diary numerous times, immersing myself in the experiences each passage recorded. Realisation as to my brother’s fate brought a cold epiphany. The diary wrought multiple emotions within me, each reading more tangible than the next as I traced and re-traced my brother’s life in this alternative world. No part was more tormenting than the concluding two entries. The joy that radiated from my brother’s writing as he stood at the culmination of his long odyssey, the hope he had for the following day, the relief that he could at last return to this world as he prepared for the final battle. Juxtaposed against the despondent words that comprised the following entry. The ones which recorded his half-dead state, left to die in that desolate, empty palace, abandoned by those he had regarded as his closest allies. The complete and utter lack of hope which emanated from those words tortured me. That that was his fate, that I could do nothing to save him, gripped me to my core. Multiple emotions were wrought from me, but when they finally subsided there remained only a callous desire. One to right the wrongs my brother had suffered. For me, the diary brought not only closure, but with it replaced the grief-stricken purgatory I had found myself in with a cold, new purpose.

***

Handling my affairs was hardly a difficult task. People in this field often disappeared, and for vastly less pleasant reasons. What preoccupied me instead was where I had to go, and what I could bring with me. These thoughts returned to my mind as I stepped into the hot afternoon air. Locking the door behind me, I headed into the elevator and began to descend. My brother had looked into the reasons for his sudden transportation to another world, investigating anything that might give some indication as to why he had been forcefully taken from his university dorm all those years ago. Whilst he found nothing substantial for himself, his later accounts wrote of the discoveries of several gates which enabled people to briefly traverse between the two realities.  Gates that showed up momentarily, for brief fractions of time. A dry smile crept across my face as I passed through the platform barriers and stepped onto the train. Gates, he recorded, one of which would open exactly one week from the book’s arrival. By the time he had found them, it was too late. He was too deeply immersed in his quest, had too many people reliant on him, held too many responsibilities to allow him to head halfway across that other world to attempt the travel back. But for me, it presented the perfect opportunity I needed. I had thrown only the essentials into my bag. Inner layers would suffice until I got there, ones that were nondescript and could keep me warm if necessary, depending on where I found myself. Outer layers would have to be sourced from that world, lest I drew unwanted attention. Basic rations, although hardly enticing, comprised the majority of my supplies, sufficient to last me several weeks, especially when paired with the numerous packs of water purification tablets I had buried alongside them. Leaning against the smooth metal train seats, I felt my last two pieces of equipment press into my thighs. A pair of knives, one survival, one push. Following my brother’s chronology, military technology in the other world seemed characteristically fantasy, with the majority of weaponry favouring medieval-era arms and armour. The knives I had taken would be sufficient to ensure my basic survival, both in the wild and against other people. As the station names sounded in the background, the possibility that this was all some sick joke constantly plagued the back of my mind. Yet it was all too intricate, too elaborate. The location itself, too public for anything criminal…

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

***

It looked wholly unassuming when I first laid eyes upon it. With my bag slung over my shoulder, I made my way through the rubble that smothered the floor. The area was littered with debris, sections of smashed electronics and discarded car parts sprawled amongst the dirt. Wild grass and weeds grew around them, the abundant greenery slowly enveloping the abandoned metal. And yet there it stood, in a small clearing by itself. A single, inconspicuous white door. Its faded paint peeling off its frail wooden frame, revealing the battered oak that lay beneath. In direct contrast with its unassuming appearance, it gave off an almost incongruous sense of solidity. Even the foliage seemed to recognise this, taking care to avoid growing where the door stood. Tentatively I stepped forwards, reaching out my hand to clasp the handle. Anticipation shook my arm. A fear perhaps, of what I would see. I gripped the handle and pulled. The familiar sight of the blue sky which surrounded me, tinged with the late afternoon hue, brought a sense of relief. I let out my breath, and gently pushed the door to a close. There was still half an hour left until sunset. Setting my bag down opposite, I looked across the bay and waited. 

Twenty minutes left.

Before me lay the city, a tall mass of white and glass, nestled within the dense vegetation of the mountains around it. At its heart, a pool of deep blue that stretched all the way out into the horizon, captured within the layer of land that comprised the port. The sounds from the city could be heard even from here, a comforting ambience of quiet traffic and people’s voices. Ships dotted the open waters, drifting lazily outwards, whilst the quiet evening sky, filled with the sleepy chirping of birds, was disrupted only by the occasional ship horn signaling its departure. I breathed it all in, savouring the crispness of the late air.

Ten minutes left.

The wind had picked up, passing a gentle breeze through the trees whilst the grass swayed in cohesion. In the distance I made out the movement of cars, the bustle of people as they headed home from work. Orange rays intermingled with the blue sky in a mesmerising dance as the sun slowly wandered towards the horizon. 

Five minutes.

I breathed out a sigh and slung the bag over my shoulder. It was nearly time. Glancing over, the door looked as inconspicuous as ever, gently closed within its thin frame. It seemed to almost be in a world of its own, unperturbed by the soft wind that swept through the bay. Despite its aging appearance, it hinted at a sense of strength, but with it also an eerie unfamiliarity, as if it didn't quite truly belong in the world it resided within.

Now.

Taking in a deep breath, I strode across the dirt, clasped the handle firmly, pulled and. There it was. A whole different world. Around me, the sun tinted the sky in its last moments. I could hear the cars in the distance, smell the ocean air that mingled with the humidity of the summer evening, feel the soft breeze that blew past my ears. And yet in front of me, ahead of me, was something incoherently different. A portal was the only way to describe it, within the door’s frame contained long fields of clear green grass, rippling beneath cerulean blue skies. And in the centre: two pale moons, one a washed red, the other a bone white. It was right there before me, a whole different world; one that took my brother, and with it his life. I lingered for a moment, pausing not only to comprehend the view that now lay in front of me, but also to acknowledge the reality that I would leave behind. And with it, the sense of normality that I had always known. I steeled myself, stepped forwards and passed through the frame into the world beyond. 

My feet landed on solid grass. The dirt, the air, it all felt the same and yet, I could not shake off the feeling that something about it was inherently… different. Looking behind me, within the door lay the world that I knew, the sky entering its solemn blue hour as the sun finished its path beneath the horizon. A thin layer of orange separated it from the deep blue of the ocean, fracturing across the glass of the skyscrapers embedded within the landscape. I wondered when it would be the next time I could see the same view again, and for a moment I indulged myself, taking it all in. Holding onto the handle, I slowly pulled it towards me until, with a satisfying click, it closed. I hesitantly twisted and pushed it back once more, just to see. And the other world, the one I had spent my entire life in, the one which held everything I had ever known, was gone. In its place was simply a field of lush greenery. And the door itself was just that. A solitary wooden door, peeling in its white paint, discarded atop a grassy hill. And I stood there with it for a moment longer, one hand still clutching on to the handle.

Now that I was actually here, the world around me felt even more surreal. The open plain did not seem to last long, bordered by a thick forest which gave no indication as to what it held. As I headed down, I turned to look back once more. The door stood there by itself, a defiant frame of white against a sea of blue and green. Looking back, I wondered to myself how it had been left there in the first place. Whether this one, like its counterpart in the junkyard, had been placed here intentionally. And whether, once my task was finished, I could rely again on this same door to return to my home world. These thoughts coloured the door with a certain melancholy in my eyes, and my gaze lingered on it for a brief second more. Then I turned around, and continued on my path.