"I fold your worlds as easily as pages, Luna. I thought I traced your story, penned your chapters—but here you hand me a different book. Must I follow these new pages, even if they erase my own words?" — E
The Monday hallways vanished. The city, the traffic, the hum of human life—all undone, replaced by a meadow swaying in a breeze scented with pine and wet earth. Dew clung to the tips of grass, glinting like fractured glass. I blinked, disoriented, the words I'd pitched rearranged into something unfamiliar. Luna's mark was everywhere—in sunlight that fractured into shards on the ground, in the angles of the grass, in the syntax of the world itself.
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The heavens had watched eras rise and fall, marks carved into time itself. But now, one era had exhaled its last, leaving only echoes and dust in the sky. The air carried a chill that bit at my lungs, sweet with the smell of moss and distant rain, the kind of cold that could make warmth feel like a sin.
A voice dragged me from my thoughts. "Hey, what course do we have after this one?"
I stirred awake to the familiar buzz of the hall: feet shuffling, whispers, lockers clanging—a traffic jam of human energy on a Monday morning. My head throbbed, heavy with sleep I hadn't earned, taste of stale coffee lingering on my tongue like a shadow.
"Robin, wake up! Were you gaming all night again?"
Ugh. Tori. She had the uncanny ability to break into my thoughts like a sunbeam through a cracked window. "Let me be… too noisy," I muttered, burying my head deeper into my arms. Her persistence pressed against my skull like a weight, insisting.
"Up!" she said, tugging my arm. I stumbled to my feet, hoodie over my head futile against the sun blazing through the windows, warmth brushing like accusation across my cheeks. She grabbed my hand and practically dragged me down the hall. "We have economics next. We can't be late! Hope your sleepy eyes are from reading. Failing this test? Not an option. Finals are coming! Are you listening?!"
Her black hair whipped across my face like a scythe in the wind. Her hazel eyes burned with suspicion, scanning every passerby, greeting them with a practiced charm that made the hall feel both alive and predatory.
Having a childhood friend could be a blessing. Having a popular one was a different kind of curse.
"Look! He's already there," she said, pointing toward the lecture hall. Then, breaking into a sprint, she yanked me along, lungs screaming, shoes pounding the tile in a rhythm that echoed in my chest. "Hurry!"
And then the scene folded.
The Monday hallways vanished again, but this time I barely noticed—our senses had already adjusted to the tilt. In their place stretched the meadow more vividly: green and alive, waving under impossibly blue skies, sunlight brushing the grass like careful punctuation in a sentence. The scent of pine and damp earth clung to my hair, drifting into my nostrils with each breath. The wind carried it, teasing, brushing across my face, threading through my hoodie, leaving goosebumps along my arms.
"Goodness, and who might you two be?"
I turned. A woman stood before us, eyes the color of the rising sun, bright and warming, cutting through the surreal clarity of the meadow. Her long green-sleeved dress and crisp white apron spoke of a time long past. Gloves covered her hands—odd, and yet I felt compelled not to comment. Somehow, I could tell she already knew we weren't from here.
"Good morning, Ma'am. We—" Tori started, but stopped. Words could betray confusion and land us labeled mad—or worse, witch.
A soft smile curved the woman's lips. "Why don't we go in first? Talk is far more enjoyable over a meal."
Tori hesitated. Hostility could get us nowhere here. I scanned her, searching for duplicity. Her gaze was warm, unreadable, but the red in her eyes hinted at an odd vitality—like a hearth fire hidden beneath snow.
Sheeps roamed in the distance but no shepherd or dog appeared. I noted it. My mind ticked over oddities like a ledger, but the meadow's calm demanded patience.
The house was more a manor than a barn, tidy with brick walls that should not have existed here. Inside, warmth rolled over me like tea poured into chilled hands on a winter morning. The fireplace crackled, sending gentle waves of heat through the sitting room. The smell of wood smoke mingled with a faint sweetness—baked bread, perhaps, or honey. Mary bustled about preparing breakfast. We offered to help; Tori eager. Mary declined. Guests first, work later.
"Robert, what do we do?" Tori's voice broke my thoughts. Her eyes darted, seeking answers in the corners, the beams, the hearth.
"I… dunno," I admitted. I let the room's calm sink into me. "I really don't know."
Tori sniffled. "It's pine… so calming," she murmured, as though naming it anchored her.
A sudden voice rang out: "Mom!" Footsteps descended the stairs. My eyes tracked a girl, roughly our age, red hair like autumn leaves, green eyes alert, full of curiosity and caution.
"Mother?" I murmured, glancing at Mary and then back to the stairs. Tori whispered, "Blonde, red eyes… wait, and then strawberry blonde with green eyes?" Confusion painted her face.
"Huuh… who are you two?" the girl asked, green eyes sharp, wary. Silence had held too long; words now came cautious, deliberate.
"Hi… hello, I'm Victoria," Tori said awkwardly.
Her gaze shifted to me. And you?
"…and this Robin," Tori said, offering a small smile.
"Nice to meet you," she said, notching my shoulder lightly.
"Hello," I replied, letting the farmhouse warmth sink into my bones. The meadow pressed its green and gold against the windows; the scent of pine threaded through the air. For a moment, the chaos of Monday and the city felt like a distant echo—a line folded, waiting to be rewritten. Somewhere, hidden beneath the world's new syntax, I could almost hear a whisper:
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"Grammar may guide the story, E., and you may fold the lines as you wish—but the sentence persists. Without grammar, even a new line is nothing." — L