The floor creaked under his foot as August stepped outside.
It wasn't much of a floor—just uneven wood nailed into the side of a hill, sun-faded and splintered in half a dozen places. The porch rattled when he moved, like even it wasn't sure he belonged here.
He stopped on the edge.
And stared.
The world outside looked like someone had tried to finish his story without him. And maybe they had.
The sky wasn't blue—it was layered. Gold, indigo, a strange shimmer of green like oil floating on glass. Trees bent inward like they were listening. The wind smelled like metal and dust and morning.
August's breath caught in his throat.
He'd dreamed of places like this before—written them, even. But never like this. Never this finished. Never this alive.
"I didn't…" he murmured. "I didn't write this part."
Birds—no, things with wings—whirled overhead. They didn't flap, they just drifted, motionless, like paper caught in invisible strings. One of them had two heads. Another blinked sideways.
He turned slowly, scanning the horizon.
There was a city below. Cracked rooftops, crooked chimneys, and a hundred shades of rust. Machines creaked lazily between buildings—spherical, insect-legged, trailing cables behind them like tails. Farther out, thin black towers rose from the ground, pulsing with dim light at the tips.
He didn't recognize any of it.
Not a single street.
Not a name.
Not even the layout.
Edgeharbor was supposed to be smaller, he thought. More rural. No towers. No drones. Just a few farms. I wrote that. I—
He stopped.
No. He didn't. Not really.
He'd hinted. Maybe outlined. But the actual world? The full, living, breathing thing?
He never finished it.
And now it had finished itself.
He stepped forward. Gravel crunched under his boots. His ribs ached, and his shoulder twinged where the bandages pressed too tight. Every step reminded him he shouldn't be alive.
That fall—
He blinked. Looked down at his hands.
Just skin. No glow. No burn.
But he felt it. Something deep under his ribs. Humming. Coiled.
Something that hadn't been there before the fall.
He whispered, "What the hell did he do to me?"
A breeze blew across the ridge. Carried with it the distant sound of gears, creaking. A hollow bell ringing somewhere deep in the valley.
August's eyes lifted toward the horizon.
There—on the far edge of the city—stood a figure, barely visible, cloaked in heat haze.
Gone in a blink.
Probably nothing.
Probably.
August kept walking.
The path curved around the hillside, half-eaten by moss and roots. At some point, it stopped pretending to be a road and turned into plain earth—just soft dirt, scattered stones, and the hum of unfamiliar insects singing in some off-key harmony.
Everything felt too detailed. Like the world had rendered itself in high-definition while he was asleep.
How much of this existed when I left it?
He tried to remember the version of Edgeharbor he'd imagined back in middle school—smudged sketches, half-names, worldbuilding that collapsed under its own weight. He remembered writing phrases like "the last safe zone before the Rift," and thinking that sounded cool. Mysterious. But he'd never explained what the Rift was. Never drew the map.
He stopped next to a crooked signpost. The words were faded in a language he didn't know. Or maybe the letters just didn't want to be read by him.
"This was supposed to be my world," he muttered. "Why can't I read anything?"
The trees didn't answer.
Somewhere in the forest behind him, something snapped. Not a twig. Something bigger.
August flinched and turned fast.
Nothing.
No movement.
Just the kind of silence that watches.
He exhaled slowly and kept walking. His legs ached. His body still felt like someone had thrown him down five flights of stairs and told him to walk it off.
He reached another rise—lower this time. A path of broken stone led toward what looked like a collapsed railway, rusted and overtaken by weeds. He crouched, touched the ground.
Warm.
Everything felt used. Nothing was pristine. It wasn't a new world, waiting for him to discover it. It had kept going without him.
That thought bothered him more than he wanted to admit.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out what was left of his manuscript page—the only physical proof of what he'd made. The paper was nearly shredded now, edges curled from rain or sweat or time. Only one line remained legible:
Arthur appears in Edgeharbor. A storm rises behind him.
August stared at the words.
Then up at the sky.
Clear.
Silent.
No storm.
Just air and haze and heat.
He folded the paper slowly. "He's here. Somewhere. I know it."
His throat felt dry. Not from thirst—something else. Like guilt wrapped in nerves.
I killed him.
No. I wrote him dying.
That's different. Right?
A chill slid down his spine.
You thought it was tragic. Which is not the same thing.
The words came back sharp. That man on the bridge—whatever he was—had carved them deep.
August stood up slowly.
There was no sign of Arthur. No signs of anyone.
Just an empty world too big to claim.
And still, he whispered:
"If I'm not the author anymore… what am I?"
The sun had no clear position.
It wasn't overhead. It wasn't setting. It just hung — like the light here didn't believe in direction, only presence. The air shimmered in pockets. Some places were cooler than others for no reason. Occasionally, the wind would reverse direction mid-breath.
August walked until the path gave up entirely.
Dirt faded into layered stone, then into soft, unfamiliar metal — tarnished and floral-patterned, like someone had tried to pave the ground with the inside of a music box. He crouched again, pressing his hand flat against the metal.
It thrummed beneath his palm.
Not loudly. Not like a machine.
More like a breath.
"I didn't make this," he said quietly.
It wasn't denial. It wasn't panic. Just… realization.
This place wasn't waiting for him. It didn't rise at his touch, didn't whisper his name. It was indifferent. He could die here, and nothing would change.
Something in the distance let out a low, deep howl. Not close. Not urgent. But enough to remind him: this world had predators.
He turned around.
The old woman's house was no longer visible. Trees had swallowed it. The trail behind him was gone — devoured by the same silence that had followed him since morning.
August sat down on the edge of the stone path, staring out across the valley.
A thin fog had started to roll in. It clung low to the ground, didn't rise. Almost like it knew how to crawl. Buildings flickered in and out of sight through it — some broken, some clearly active. Light from windows. Heat trails in the air.
He pulled his knees to his chest and rested his chin on top of them.
For a while, he didn't speak.
Then, softly:
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
Not dramatic.
Just true.
He reached into his jacket pocket again, more out of habit than hope. No food. No compass. Just the half-ruined page and a pencil nub with no eraser.
He turned the page over and, in the margin, wrote:
Chapter Eleven — Day One. Foundation unknown. Goal: survive. Secondary goal: find Arthur. Not because I deserve to. Just because… I have to.
He paused.
Added a final line:
If I die here, that's fine. But I need to know how the story ends. The real one.
He pocketed the page again.
Then stood.
His legs felt steadier now. Not stronger. Just… steadier. Like whatever had coiled inside him during the fall was watching — and waiting.
He didn't know what it was.
But it had kept him alive.
"Guess that makes us even," he muttered.
Behind him, the fog shifted.
A figure stepped out from it.
Not Arthur.
Just a young woman with a rusted spear and eyes like stormglass, staring at him like she was trying to figure out if he was edible.
August blinked. "Hi?"
She didn't lower the spear.
"Move," she said. "Now."
He did.
Fast.