The pen scratched paper, but left no mark.
Sommer stared down at the open page of her journal, confusion tightening behind her brow. Her fingers moved, the ink rolled out like normal, and yet when she glanced up again, the paper was blank. Not even a dent. Just smooth, untouched parchment. Like the words had never existed — like she had never written anything at all.
She blinked. The pen trembled slightly in her grip.
The room was warm. Modern. Familiar. Too familiar.
A wide, sunlit window filled the left wall, curtains gently swaying in a non-existent breeze. Outside, waves crashed against a cliff, far below. She could hear gulls. Smell sea salt and morning caf.
This was her home. Or something trying to be.
A white mug sat beside her, half-full. A fresh bouquet of purple celensari blossoms rested in a vase nearby, the kind that only grew on the slopes of Iridonia in late spring. A songbird chirped through the silence. Somewhere in the house, wind chimes rang.
But she was alone.
And had always been alone.
Sommer sat up slowly from the writing desk and turned. The house had no shadows. No doors ajar. No hallway stretching into dark. Just clean walls, sunlight, quiet furniture, and time standing still.
Her feet carried her through the living room without a sound. A book lay open on the couch. The holoscreen showed a frozen image of a banquet table. The faces on it were just blurred shapes — no features. Just outlines. Guests without names.
The kitchen was spotless. Not a dish. Not a mess.
Not a voice.
"Hello?" she called softly.
Her voice echoed. Returned to her.
No answer.
She opened a cabinet. Closed it. Pressed her hand against the countertop, hoping to feel… anything. Heat. Cold. Vibration. Even dust.
Nothing.
Her hand passed through a hanging towel like it wasn't even there.
Sommer's breath quickened. Her eyes darted to the windows again, to the ocean, to the sky — both too perfect. No clouds. No shifting light. No passage of time.
She stepped back. Her heart now fluttering.
"I'm not dreaming," she whispered. "Am I?"
A sound.
Soft. Faint.
She turned her head sharply.
From behind her, where the study was — the room she had been in just moments ago — a note was playing. A piano key. Just one. Hanging in the air, low and hollow.
Then another.
She stepped back in, slowly.
The chair where she had been sitting was now facing her.
The journal was closed. On the front cover, a new phrase had appeared in silver script:
"She is near."
Sommer froze.
The hair on the back of her neck stood upright. Her breath caught in her throat.
She reached for the journal — but before her hand touched it, the walls around her began to ripple. The windows distorted. The light stuttered. A breeze that hadn't existed roared through the house, knocking the vase of flowers off the table. It shattered — but didn't make a sound.
Glass flew in perfect silence.
The journal burst open — and this time, her words bled across the pages, black ink pouring from every line.
"You are not alone. Not anymore."
She backed away. The floor trembled beneath her feet, and through the vibrations, she heard it — not outside, not within the house…
…but beneath her.
Voices. Real ones.
Shouts. Mechanical hisses. The sound of boots on metal floors. Gunfire in the distance.
And then…
"I'll deal with them. You just make sure the real me comes out alive."
Sommer's eyes widened.
That voice.
Her voice.
She stumbled backward as the room around her cracked open like glass under strain — light breaking through, heat flooding in, and for the first time in what felt like years, Sommer felt painfully real.
She fell to her knees.
Her body. Her real body.
Somewhere, it was waking.
