Parna woke at midnight.
Not suddenly—
not from a dream—
but as if something had gently touched his awareness.
The room was dark, yet not empty.
His chest felt tight, not with fear, but with the sensation that words were forming nearby—words that had not yet learned how to sound. The air itself seemed restless, shifting as though it carried meaning.
Parna sat up slowly.
"What is it?" he whispered.
No answer came.
But the feeling remained.
He stood, pulled on his jacket, and stepped out of his room. The hallway was silent, its lights dimmed to a low glow. The hotel felt different at night—less like a resting place, more like a corridor between moments.
Parna followed the pull.
Down the stairs.
Past closed doors.
Into the lobby.
The glass entrance reflected the moonlight spilling across the floor. Parna stepped outside, the cool night air brushing his skin. He lifted his gaze to the sky.
The moon was full.
Too still.
Then his eyes shifted.
To the tree.
It stood beside the hotel—old, wide, its branches spreading like veins against the night. At first, Parna thought the wind had picked up. But the air around him was calm.
The tree was moving.
Not violently.
Not randomly.
It trembled—as if breathing.
Parna felt his heartbeat slow.
"That's not wind," he murmured.
He stepped closer.
As he approached, the movement softened, almost cautious. The trunk loomed before him, rough and aged, its surface scarred by time. Parna leaned in, running his fingers along the bark.
Then he saw it.
A symbol.
Carved deep into the trunk.
His breath caught.
It was the same.
Not identical in shape, but in language. The same logic. The same silent geometry he had copied from the forest tree days ago.
"Why are you here?" Parna whispered.
The symbol felt warm.
Something shifted behind him.
Parna turned.
A figure stood near the edge of the light.
Tall.
Still.
The person's face was completely covered by a mask—smooth, colorless, without features. A long, heavy jacket swallowed their frame, hiding any sign of age or identity.
Parna stiffened.
"Who are you?" he asked.
The figure tilted their head slightly.
Then they spoke.
"It is time."
The voice was low—but distorted, as if spoken through water.
Parna frowned.
"What time?" he asked.
The figure spoke again.
But Parna heard nothing.
The lips moved.
The words were formed.
Yet the sound never reached him.
"What?" Parna stepped forward. "I can't hear you."
The masked figure raised one hand slowly.
The tree behind Parna stopped shaking.
The air thickened.
Then—
nothing.
The figure vanished.
No footsteps.
No movement.
No trace.
Just empty space where someone had been standing moments ago.
Parna stood frozen.
His heart began to race now—not from fear, but from confusion so sharp it felt physical. He turned back to the tree.
The symbol was gone.
The trunk was bare.
As if it had never been carved at all.
Parna staggered back a step.
"No," he said quietly. "I saw it."
The moon slipped behind a cloud.
The tree stood still.
And the night returned to silence.
Parna exhaled shakily and rubbed his eyes. The hotel loomed behind him, quiet and indifferent.
"Get a grip," he muttered.
But even as he turned to go back inside, he knew—
Something had spoken.
Something had waited.
And something had chosen now.
Inside the hotel, far above him, a compass shifted slightly on a table.
In another room, symbols inside a box glowed faintly, then dimmed.
In another, a girl stirred from sleep, feeling an unfamiliar calm.
And in the darkness between streets, a pendant grew warm against a man's chest.
Lako City did not sleep.
It listened.