Stories in this universe moved like rivers that never slowed. Events followed events with mechanical grace. Cause met effect without friction. Nothing lingered long enough to be questioned.
Akash learned to interrupt that flow.
At first, it was accidental. He paused mid-sentence while telling a simple story. The listener frowned. The air thickened. Somewhere distant, thunder formed without clouds.
Encouraged—and frightened—Akash tried again.
He paused longer this time.
The results were immediate. Birds froze mid-wingbeat. The horizon trembled, as if unsure where to place itself. A dream-star flickered, then dimmed.
The universe did not like gaps.
Pain rippled outward, not from Akash, but toward him. The world pushed back, urging completion. Finish the thought. Close the loop. Continue.
Akash felt the pressure behind his third eye intensify. Not a command, but a warning.
He understood then: pauses were acts of resistance.
Every story expected obedience. Pausing meant refusing to serve momentum. It forced the universe to acknowledge uncertainty, and uncertainty was expensive.
Far beyond perception, the pen slowed. It hovered at the edge of a sentence, ink gathering but not falling. This delay sent tremors through the structure of things.
Akash sensed it without seeing it.
For the first time, silence was not absence.
It was opposition.