At last, Elias discovered something beyond the mountains—something he never built.
A door.
Made of dark wood, carved with swirling patterns he didn't recognize.
It pulsed softly, like a heartbeat.
Confused, Elias reached for it. When he touched the handle, the world around him froze. The river halted mid-flow; the wind stopped; the sun dimmed.
Then he heard a voice—his own voice—from the other side of the door.
"Elias… wake up."
The voice sounded older.
Exhausted.
Broken.
The door creaked open, just a sliver.
Through the crack, Elias saw a hospital room. Monitors. A woman crying—his mother.
A doctor shaking his head.
And on the bed, motionless, was him.
His body.
A pale boy with tubes and tape and a phone burned dark in his hand.
Elias stumbled back, shaking.
The voice—his older self—whispered again:
"You didn't escape, Elias… you collapsed. Elyria wasn't a world you entered. It was the one your mind created while it was shutting down."
The door widened.
The hospital grew sharper, louder.
His mother sobbed harder.
Elias screamed, clawing at the air, begging the door to close, begging Elyria to take him back.
But the world he created began to fade like dust in wind.
The last thing Elias saw was the cottage collapsing into light.
The last thing he heard was the steady beeping of a heart monitor.
And then—
Nothing.