Day 150. I keep walking. There’s no reason to, but stopping feels worse. The cold settles in. My thoughts blur. A feeling creeps in, like I’m circling somewhere I’ve been before. I pause, breath clouding. A whisper escapes before I can stop it: “It’s quiet here. Cold. Barren. Where is everyone?”
Day 149. The space stretches in every direction. Grey, silent, endless. My footsteps echo against nothing. No figures. No voice. No light. Still, something pulls me forwards. I walk into the blackness. The emptiness isn’t unfamiliar. I’ve walked here before. I don’t remember when. But my bones do.
Day 148. I stand at the threshold, unsure if I should step through or turn back. But there is no back. Only a weight behind me, urging me forward. The choice feels distant now, like it’s already been made. I take a breath. Then another step. The doorway closes behind me without a sound. I am alone.
Day 147. I step toward the doorway. It hums. A low, resonant sound that fills my chest. The air thickens, pushing back against me. Behind, the path is gone. Only the figure remains, watching. “Don’t look back,” it says. I hesitate, then cross the threshold. The hum becomes a whisper. Then, silence.
Day 146. I don’t answer. I don’t know how to answer. The figure steps aside, revealing a doorway pulsing like it's alive. “This is where it truly begins,” it says. “When you enter, you leave yourself behind.” My voice is barely a whisper. “And if I don’t?” The figure smiles. “But you already have.”
Day 145. I stop a few steps short of the figure. It’s cloaked, featureless, yet something about it feels familiar, yet wrong. It tilts its head. “You came farther than most.” My throat is dry. “What are you?” The figure doesn’t answer. Instead, it asks, “Why do you think this path let you through?”
Day 144. The air thins as I move forward. Each breath feels borrowed. The path narrows, no longer light or shadow but both. Blended and flickering. A shape waits for me ahead, unmoving. Not welcoming, not hostile. Just present. My steps slow. Whatever this is, it was never meant to be crossed alone.
Day 143. The earth shifts beneath my feet as I walk. The paths stretch endlessly, yet I feel watched with every step. Above, the rift pulses like a heartbeat. Behind me, the figure fades into shadow. Ahead, the light and dark twist together, forming something new. Unclear. Unstable. Waiting.
Day 142. The ground trembles with each word. I look at the figure but it offers no guidance. The rift widens, the darkness inside pulling at me. Two paths form in the broken earth, one toward the light, one into shadow. My heart pounds. The choice isn’t mine. It never was. I step forward.
Day 141. The sky peels open with a sound like splitting stone. Beyond the cracks, darkness moves. It's seems alive, shifting. I step back instinctively. The figure watches me, silent. From the rift above, a voice echoes down, vast and hollow. “One world ends. Another begins. Choose your place.”
Day 140. The cracks spread, weaving a web across the sky. Light bleeds through, cold and sharp. The figure steps back into the shadows. “This is where you choose.” My mouth is dry. “Choose what?” No answer. Only the sound of the sky tearing, and the terrible sense that something is coming through.
Day 139. The light rises again, leaving a faint mark where it touched the ground. The figure stands. “It’s begun,” it says. My legs still shake, but I manage to stand. Above us, the sky cracks, thin lines of light spidering outward. “What has?” I whisper. The figure just looks up. “Everything.”
Day 138. The warmth deepens, crawling beneath my skin. I gasp. Visions of fractured places, symbols I don’t recognise, faces half-formed. My knees buckle. The figure watches silently. “They’re showing you,” it says. “What will be.” My voice breaks. “And if I refuse?” It doesn’t blink. “You won’t.”
Day 137. The light touches the ground and spreads outward, slow and deliberate, encircling me. I try to step back but my legs won’t move. The figure lowers its head. “Don’t resist,” it says. A warmth floods through me. Not comfort but pressure. Like something pushing its way in.
Day 136. The light pulses again, once, twice, then steady. The figure turns its gaze upward. “They’ve decided.” My chest tightens. “Decided what?” It doesn’t answer. Instead, it kneels once more. The ground trembles beneath me, soft and rhythmic, like a heartbeat. The light begins to descend.
Day 135. The figure stops just short of me. “They’re still watching,” it says, eyes flicking upward. “What happens next depends on them.” I glance toward the light. Shapes shift behind it, indistinct and immense. “If they choose you,” the figure adds, “you won’t be the same. Not after this.”
Day 134. The figure tilts its head. “You broke the pattern,” it says. I stay silent, every instinct screaming to run. “Most fall. Most forget.” It steps forward, slow and careful. “But you climbed.” The light overhead pulses, and for a moment, I see others beyond it. Watching. Waiting. Deciding.
Day 133. The figure doesn’t move, but something about it has changed. It no longer kneels. It no longer chants. Its eyes—if they are eyes—glow faintly. I take a step back. It mirrors me. “Why didn’t you fall?” it asks, voice low and curious. I don’t answer. I don’t trust that I’m meant to.
Day 132. I haul myself over the edge, chest heaving. The ground is cracked, glowing faintly beneath my hands. Behind me, the chasm closes with a low groan. The voice is silent now. I look up. The light is brighter. Warmer. But I’m not alone. One of the kneeling figures is standing. Watching.
Day 131. My hand finds stone, solid and real. I pull, my muscles screaming. The voice snaps sharp and cold. “You don’t get to choose.” The ledge cracks beneath me. I scramble higher, lungs burning. The light above pulses then steadies. The air shifts. Something is changing. It knows I didn’t let go.
Day 130. I shut my eyes. The man's voice echoes in my mind, clear and steady. “Don’t trust what speaks like it knows you.” My grip tightens. The voice above me hisses, the kindness gone. “He chose this.” The light flickers overhead, faint but steady. I reach for it, hand trembling.
Day 129. The voice softens. “You’ve come so far. Why keep suffering?” I grit my teeth, fingers screaming. The ground above crumbles. “Let go,” it says, almost kind. “I can show you where he went.” My grip falters for a second. Just a second. Enough for the doubt to slip in.
Day 128. The world tilts sharply and I fall, sliding toward the widening chasm. At the edge, I catch hold of a jagged ledge. Below, only darkness. The voice lingers above me. “You should let go.” My fingers burn, but I hold on. The silence beneath me isn’t empty. It’s breathing. Waiting.
Day 127. The cracks widen, splitting the ground into jagged lines. I stagger to my feet. “You took him,” I say, my voice raw. The silence that follows is deafening. Then the voice returns, softer now. “He offered himself. You watched.” The ground shifts again, tilting beneath me.
Day 126. The tremble builds to a low, grinding rumble. Cracks split the ground beneath me. I scramble back, heart racing. “Wait,” I whisper, though I don’t know to who. The light above flickers uncertainly. Then the voice again, calm and cold: “You were never going to leave together.”
Day 125. The light fades. He’s gone. Nothing remains. No sound, no shape, not even shadow. I drop to my knees. The air is still, too still. Then the voice returns, no longer distant. It speaks from everywhere and nowhere at once: “Now it’s your turn.” The ground trembles beneath me.
Day 124. I feel it reach toward me. Not with hands, but with intent. The man steps forward. “Take me,” he says. His voice shakes, but he doesn’t stop. The void shifts. For a moment, everything holds. Then the light flares again, blinding. My vocal cords unlock and I scream, but he’s already gone.
Day 123. The man doesn’t look at me. He just says, “If it chooses me, run.” I shake my head, but no words come. The thing leans closer, the void of its face shifting. The air grows impossibly still. A soft chime sounds, like glass cracking. Then the comes voice again, sharp and definite: “Choose.”
Day 122. The chanting stops. Silence crashes down like a wave. The thing tilts its head. No eyes, but I feel its gaze anyway. The man shifts slightly. “It’s choosing.” I want to run, scream, anything, but I’m frozen. The air grows colder. Then the voice, barely audible: “One stays. One leaves.”
Day 121. It moves, slow and deliberate. The ground groans beneath its weight. The man whispers, “Don’t move.” I barely nod. The light warps, pulled toward the thing’s form. No face, only shifting void. The kneeling figures chant, their voices monotone. Whatever this is, it isn’t meant to be here.
