The silence was thick —
so heavy it felt as if the world itself had forgotten how to breathe.
When Novan opened his eyes, he wasn't sure whether he had truly awakened,
or if he was still drifting inside a dream that refused to end.
The gray light filling the room was not sunlight.
It was faint, trembling — as if it feared its own existence.
He sat up on the wooden bed, staring at the wall as its paint peeled away like dry skin.
Somewhere behind his head, a whisper lingered — thin, almost melodic.
He couldn't make out the words, but he knew that voice.
He had known it long before he ever opened his eyes.
A dull ache pulsed through his skull as he tried to remember.
Each time he reached for his name,
he found only emptiness.
And yet, he did not panic.
There was only stillness within him —
a strange, unnatural calm, as though even fear itself was asleep.
He stepped outside.
The scent of damp wood drifted through the air.
The village was quiet — too quiet.
Rows of houses stood in perfect symmetry, every window open,
all facing a single narrow road that vanished into the mist.
Even the wind passed through in a straight, obedient line.
Passing by a well, he caught sight of his reflection.
But it wasn't his face.
The features were blurred, the eyes pitch-black —
not seeing, but consuming.
When his fingertips brushed the water, the surface froze.
For an instant, even time refused to move.
> "Good morning, Novan."
He turned sharply.
A child stood there, holding a wooden bucket, smiling a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"The weather's nice today, isn't it?" the boy asked softly.
"Who told you my name?"
The boy laughed lightly and looked toward the sky.
> "Everyone knows you here. You're the one who came from beyond the hills."
Everyone.
The word echoed in his head.
How many were there, truly?
The village wasn't large,
but in every window, a face stared back —
the same face.
Identical eyes. Identical smiles.
Copies of a single being.
As he walked, their voices followed him —
repeating the same phrases, the same laughter,
in perfect rhythm.
This wasn't life.
It was a loop.
At the edge of the village, he found that every path led into fog.
Whenever he tried to approach,
the air grew heavy, pressing against his lungs,
as if some invisible force forbade him from crossing.
He sat on the cold earth and looked up.
The sky was the color of dying metal.
The clouds moved — but not with the wind.
They crawled backward, against it,
and with each motion came a hum, soft and resonant,
sliding into him like a memory half-remembered.
Then — the light began to change.
A thin black line tore across the sky.
Silent.
Then another.
Then a third.
And in the next heartbeat — the silence shattered.
The ground trembled.
What followed wasn't thunder —
it was weeping.
A sound too human to belong to the sky.
The villagers froze mid-motion, their heads lifting in eerie unison
as the crack widened above them.
From within the tear, a black radiance spilled out —
not darkness, but the inverse of light.
A brilliance that devoured everything it touched.
The faces lost their smiles.
The air thickened.
Color, sound, time — all began to dissolve.
And Novan…
was the only one still moving.
He raised his gaze.
Ash spiraled around him, circling his body like a slow, sentient storm.
Then he felt it —
a pulse.
Not from his heart,
but from something buried deeper,
something ancient.
A pulse that answered the sky.
A whisper slid through the roaring stillness:
> "The sky remembers you…"
Another voice followed — softer, from within:
> "But do you remember it?"
The light above surged,
and the rift twisted into a swirling vortex.
Everything was pulled into it —
dust, houses, faces, even the fading color of the air.
Yet Novan remained still,
his pale brown hair whipped by the wind,
black sparks flickering around his raised hand.
Something within him was waking —
something that had waited lifetimes to breathe again.
Then, the voice spoke once more — calm, inevitable, divine:
> "You have opened your eyes…
O Shadow of Eternity."
And the world stopped.
The light.
The wind.
Time itself.
Even the rift froze in place.
The village was gone.
Only he remained —
and the torn sky, bleeding black light into the void.
Novan stood in that hollow silence,
his breath a ghost that refused to appear.
He reached upward —
the air shimmered around his fingers,
rippling like water touched by memory.
Whispers crashed through his head.
Echoes.
Not his own.
A child crying.
A woman's scream.
A man laughing amid ruin.
Fragments of lives that were not his.
Flashes of pain, loss, and something like love —
all bleeding together until he couldn't tell one from another.
Then the ground beneath him vanished.
He was no longer standing —
he was floating,
drawn toward the open wound in the sky,
toward the black light that still dripped slowly into the emptiness.
And in that moment —
he remembered.
A warm hand in his.
A woman's voice, trembling but kind:
> "Don't let the darkness decide who you are."
He froze.
He didn't know her name —
but her words felt carved into his soul.
The world below began to unravel,
the village collapsing into white ash that rose and scattered into the void.
Everything was being rewritten.
Unmade.
As the light consumed him,
the sky bent toward him — like a living thing, smiling.
And the final whisper came, soft as breath,
clear as fate:
> "Welcome… to what remains of the world, Novan."
Then —
the light died.
And all fell silent.