Graduation day was supposed to mean something.
A milestone, a turning point, a chance to celebrate. At least, that's what the others thought.
For me, it was just another step in a long, straight corridor.
The auditorium was loud — the kind of loud that grates against your skull — but I tuned it out. Speeches droned on, cameras clicked, friends hugged each other as if they'd survived a war. I stood where I needed to, shook hands when I had to, and wore the expression expected of me.
A smile. Thin. Harmless. Forgettable.
When my name was called, I walked across the stage without hurry. My hand closed around the diploma. My gaze met the principal's for half a heartbeat. I nodded once. No words. I left the stage to polite applause and returned to my seat.
It was over. Four years condensed into a piece of paper.
By the time the ceremony ended, I had no plans to meet anyone. My phone buzzed with messages — invitations, congratulations, vague half-promises to "stay in touch." I ignored them all.
The pub down the street was half-full when I arrived. A place with warm lighting and polished wood, where the regulars knew each other by name. I wasn't a regular. I just liked the silence between the low hum of conversations.
I ordered a pint. Sat by the window. Watched the rain begin to fall.
There was a certain comfort in nights like these — cold, quiet, predictable.
Then the sky broke.
It wasn't thunder. It wasn't the growl of a storm. It was something deeper, sharper — a tearing sound that didn't belong to nature. Heads turned. Glasses froze midway to lips.
Through the rain-streaked window, I saw it: a passenger plane, banking hard, trailing smoke like a wounded animal. Too low. Too fast.
People screamed. Chairs scraped against the floor. I didn't move.
"How curious." The thought wasn't mine. It was a whisper in my head — soft, feminine, almost amused.
The aircraft's lights spun in a dizzying spiral before vanishing behind the row of buildings across the street.
Impact.
The world erupted in sound and motion. Windows shattered. Heat rolled in like a wave. Someone grabbed my arm, shouting something I didn't hear. My pint toppled, spilling amber across the table.
I blinked, and the world was no longer on fire.
Blackness. Not the absence of light — this was thicker, heavier, alive. I couldn't see the pub, or the street, or my own hands.
"You are not broken," the voice murmured again. "Only… displaced."
My breath came steady, though I didn't remember choosing to breathe.
"Who are you?" My own voice sounded strange, as if echoing inside a cathedral.
"Names are for the living," she said. "But if you require one, you may call me… Ivy."
A faint glow appeared ahead, green and soft, like moonlight through leaves.
"Come, Blake Virandia."
"I'm not—" I stopped. The name felt foreign, yet heavy. Real.
The glow grew brighter. The blackness pulled me forward. Somewhere beyond the darkness, I thought I saw the outline of a throne.
And when the light finally swallowed me, the world I knew was gone.