Rain whispered against the window, a soft percussion that made the apartment feel smaller, safer — like the whole world had narrowed to the radius of one couch and the two lives resting on it.
Raylene curled beneath a blanket, legs tucked in, warm mug cradled between her palms. Steam brushed her cheeks and lashes like gentle breath.Zenith sat beside her, a book open in his lap, posture relaxed in a way only she ever saw — shoulders loose, expression unarmored.
The book in her hands was new.So new it still smelled faintly like a printing house — or perhaps like something older, disguised as new.
EGO Check
A plain white cover.No author.No blurb.Just a name.
She had found it that morning.
---
The bell above the bookstore door chimed softly as they entered, hand in hand. The world smelled of paper and quiet dreams there. Raylene drifted down the aisles slowly, fingers tracing spines like she was greeting them.
Zenith followed a step behind, letting her choose — always letting her choose — content to exist in her orbit.
Then her fingers paused.Stopped.Closed around a slim white volume.
She lifted it without hesitation, as though it had called to her.
"This one," she whispered, not sure why she knew.
Zenith glanced over.
Blank cover.No author.A title that felt like a question disguised as a command.
He frowned faintly but didn't comment.
They bought it, then walked to a café around the corner. Steam rose from their mugs as they sat in the corner booth. Raylene opened the book, pages whispering apart.
Zenith returned to his own reading, but something tugged at him — a pull, subtle but persistent, like a thread on his thoughts.
He looked.Just once.
A paragraph half-seen from his angle.
And in it —a name.
His.
Zenith.
Not a character.Just a glimpse — like a word flickering where it didn't belong.When he blinked and looked again, it was gone — replaced by another line, another name.
Raxian.
He didn't mention it.Didn't want to burden her wonder with his unease.But the word Zenith burned behind his eyes the rest of the morning.
---
Now, afternoon rain hummed against the glass.Raylene traced the edge of a page slowly, eyes half-lidded, reading about a teenage boy named Raxian — chasing power, identity, meaning, in a world shaped by a game called EGO.
Familiar.Too familiar.Like déjà vu wrapped in fiction.
Zenith watched her from the corner of his eye. He still felt that faint pull — like the book was a gravity field and he was made of iron.
"You chose that one?" he asked softly, not accusing — simply curious.
Raylene blinked down at it, voice distant, thoughtful.
"It just… felt right."
"Have you read it before?"
"No."A beat."Not that I remember."
The way she said it made his chest tighten — not fear, but recognition of something unnamed.
She turned a page.The rain deepened outside, soft and steady, wrapping the room in quiet.
"Zenith," she murmured, voice like rain slipping down glass, "do you ever feel like stories can follow people?"
His eyes stayed on his book, unmoving, but not reading anymore.
"Yes," he said quietly."As though they wait for the right moment."
She didn't know why that made her heart ache. He did. Even if neither could name the reason.
---
Her head grew heavy. Her mug cooled on the coffee table. Her eyelids fluttered once… twice… Then she leaned into him — instinct, not thought — temple resting against his thigh like she'd done it a hundred times.
The book slid from her hands, closing against her chest with a soft breath.
Zenith froze only for a heartbeat. Then he marked his page, set his book aside, and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek — gentle, reverent, as though touching something holy.
His phone buzzed. He glanced down, thumb moving before thought formed.
"ego check book"
Search.
Results flickered. Then disappeared.
No results found.
He tried again. Different spellings. Different wording.
Nothing. No listings. No reviews. Not even a print record from the very store she had held it in that morning.
Like the book wasn't made. Like it simply… appeared.
His gaze drifted to the cover resting beneath her sleeping hand. And the rain felt louder — not threatening, just present, like the world paused to watch with him.
He adjusted his posture carefully, easing back into the couch. His hand rested lightly on her shoulder, thumb drawing slow circles of reassurance.
Not for her. For him.
"Rest," he whispered.
And she did.
---
And the story — whatever story waited beyond this gentle life — stayed outside the rain-blurred window.
For her. For them. For this quiet universe where peace was not borrowed, but chosen.
A place the story still could not touch.