Rain had a way of pressing everything into stillness—like the sky itself had exhaled and decided not to breathe back in. Nathan Quinn stood beneath the rusted arch of the campus bus shelter, hoodie plastered to his skin, the tips of his fingers cold despite being shoved into his sleeves. His earbuds buzzed with lo-fi static, not even music anymore, and he didn’t bother fixing it. It fit.

  A half-hour ago, he’d rolled out of bed on autopilot. No real reason. No urgent class. No desire. Just movement. He hadn’t even realized he was on campus until he found himself standing outside the philosophy building, squinting at the windows like they might open and call him in. They didn’t.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn’t check it. He already knew what it was—another email from Dr. Kalden, his academic advisor, with that same recycled subject line: Let’s talk, Nathan. He hadn’t answered the last five. The man had started appearing at his lectures, then outside the cafeteria. Always watching. Always too calm.

  Nathan looked out across the courtyard. The university was like a machine—churning out future doctors, analysts, engineers, people who believed in plans and purpose. He was not one of those people. He didn’t even know why he’d picked his major—General Life Sciences, as if vagueness would somehow lead to clarity.

  The worst part? Everyone around him seemed so sure. Like they’d received a blueprint on their eighteenth birthday outlining the next ten years. He’d gotten anxiety, apathy, and an increasing sense that the world didn’t need another almost-intelligent, mostly-bored guy trying to stay afloat.

  He walked toward the library—not out of obligation, but because it was warm, and anonymous, and he knew the third floor had a window seat that overlooked the forest behind the science buildings. That spot had become his cave. His confession booth. His place to not be seen. He passed classmates whose names he didn’t know. Watched someone run through the rain with a coat over their head. Listened to a guy yell into his phone in a language Nathan couldn’t place. The world spun on. He was just background noise.

  Inside the library, it smelled like paper, printer ink, and a faint trace of mildew from an unidentifiable source. Nathan barely nodded at the front desk and took the stairs two at a time to the third floor. When he reached the window seat, he dropped his soaked bag and sat heavily. The forest beyond the glass looked like a mist-wrapped secret—gray trunks and twisted branches bending in the rain. He pulled his hoodie tighter and leaned his head against the cold windowpane.

  Lately, the dreams had been worse. Not nightmares, exactly—just other. He saw places that didn’t exist. Giant halls lit by floating orbs. Trees that whispered. Stone gates carved with glowing runes. Sometimes he heard music in the dreams, too—low, ancient, crawling beneath his skin. Nathan didn’t tell anyone. Not because he was embarrassed. Just because no one would understand. He closed his eyes. Just for a second.

  And then something shifted. It was subtle at first. The kind of thing most people wouldn’t even notice. The quiet grew quieter, like the building had taken a breath and held it. The faint hum of the overhead lights dimmed to a throb, like the beat of something buried too deep. Nathan opened his eyes. The library hadn’t changed—but it felt wrong.

  Outside, the forest seemed too still. The trees no longer swayed with the rain. The droplets on the window weren’t sliding down the glass anymore—they hovered in place, as if suspended in time. Nathan straightened slowly. Removed his earbuds. The static was gone, replaced by silence. Real silence. Then, a sound. A footstep behind him. A shift in weight on linoleum.

  “Nathan Quinn.”

  The voice wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be. It cut through the stillness like a knife across glass. He turned sharply. Dr. Kalden stood at the end of the bookshelf aisle, coat dry, face unreadable. His umbrella was gone. His usual leather satchel, too. In their place was something else—something tucked under his arm, half-concealed by his coat. Long, thin, metallic. Almost like a conductor’s baton. Or a wand.

  “What the hell are you doing up here?” Nathan asked, his voice cracking mid-sentence.

  Kalden didn’t move. “You’ve been feeling it, haven’t you? The shift. The current running beneath the surface.”

  Nathan frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You do,” Kalden said calmly, stepping forward. “You just don’t want to know. There’s a difference.”

  “You’ve been stalking me,” Nathan said. “Emails, showing up in my lectures, in the cafeteria—now here? Are you seriously trying to scare me into a meeting?”

  “I’m not trying to scare you,” Kalden replied. “I’m trying to save you.”

  Nathan took a step back, bumping into the edge of the window seat. “From what?”

  “From forgetting who you are. From disappearing into a world that was never meant to hold you.” Kalden paused, watching him. “You’ve dreamed of the gates, haven’t you? The towers. The music.”

  Nathan didn’t answer. But his pulse stuttered. Just for a second.

  Kalden smiled—slow, knowing. “You’ve always been able to hear the current. Most people can’t. But it’s been bleeding through for months now. And you… you’re starting to slip.”

  “You sound insane,” Nathan said, his voice quiet.

  “Maybe,” Kalden said. “Or maybe I’m the only person here who sees what you are.”

  Nathan’s hands curled into fists. “I’m not anything. I’m just a guy trying to make it through the semester.”

  “Are you?” Kalden asked. “Then why hasn’t the world been able to hold you lately? Why do clocks stop near you? Why do lights flicker when you’re angry? Why do mirrors feel wrong?”

  That last question hit too hard. Nathan flinched, and Kalden saw it.

  “Good,” Kalden said. “You do know.”

  Nathan’s back hit the window. “Get away from me.”

  “I can’t,” Kalden said, pulling the silver rod fully from his coat. “It’s too late for that.”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The object vibrated softly, humming with a low pitch that Nathan didn’t hear so much as feel in his teeth. The lights overhead dimmed. The air grew heavy—like a thunderstorm about to break.

  Nathan’s breath hitched. He didn’t know why, but every fiber of his body screamed the same thing: Run. And so he did. He bolted down the aisle, heart pounding, the strange hum growing louder behind him. Nathan ran.

  His footsteps thundered down the library stairwell, every slam of his sneaker echoing too loud, like the walls were amplifying his panic. Behind him, the hum from Kalden’s rod followed—deeper now, like something beneath the floor was resonating with it. He burst into the main lobby, expecting to see students at tables, heads bent over textbooks, someone glaring at him for making noise. But the space was empty.

  No—not empty. Frozen.

  A girl at the check-out counter stood with her arm mid-reach, a book suspended in her outstretched fingers. Her mouth was open in half of a word. The librarian behind the desk had her head tilted back in laughter, eyes crinkled in joy, teeth visible—but the sound never came. They weren’t statues. They were moments, paused. “What the…” Nathan whispered.

  A single piece of paper hovered in the air. It floated downward, ever so slowly, like gravity had forgotten its job.

  The door hissed open when he hit it, spilling him back into the storm—but the rain no longer touched him. It hovered in midair, frozen droplets forming a perfect sphere around him. A bubble of stillness. He ran through it, and it shattered like glass. Past the bike racks. Through the garden paths. The trees blurred. The world no longer made sense.

  He ducked behind the chemistry building, lungs heaving, trying to find reality in the rhythm of his breath. But even the storm sounded wrong—too quiet, like the thunder was muffled.

  He heard Kalden again. Not shouting. Not running. Just walking. Calm. “Nathan. You can’t outrun what’s inside you.” Nathan ignored him and turned into the maintenance hallway. A short cut.

  Except… This hallway wasn’t there before. It was too long. Too narrow. And the lights at the far end flickered a deep violet, like ultraviolet blood pulsing through concrete veins. “Nope,” he muttered, and turned back. But the door was gone. Only wall behind him now—smooth, seamless wall. Panic set in, sharp and rising. He ran forward, the only direction left. Doors lined the corridor. Unmarked. All closed. He grabbed the nearest handle and yanked.

  Inside was a classroom—but wrong. The desks were made of black stone. A strange constellation glowed on the ceiling, and in the center of the floor, chalk markings pulsed with dim red light. He slammed the door shut.

  Another door. This one led to a mirror-lined hallway. But the reflections were off. They lagged half a second behind. And in one mirror, his reflection didn’t move at all—it just stared back, head tilted, eyes glowing faint gold. He backed away. Fast.

  “Nathan…”

  Kalden’s voice echoed through the corridor now. Not around him—inside him. Like it had bypassed his ears entirely and went straight into his spine.

  “Reality is cracking. You can’t keep hiding.”

  Nathan grabbed another door, flung it open— And fell into trees. Nathan hit the ground hard. Leaves exploded around him, wet earth clutching at his hands as he scrambled up, gasping. The corridor—the doors, the mirrors, the impossible hallway—was gone. Replaced by dense trees, silver-limbed and too tall for the flat, planned campus forest he thought he knew. He was in the woods.

  But not the woods.

  The sky above still churned with storm clouds, but the thunder no longer rolled. It pulsed. The trees shimmered at the edges, bending too gently, like they weren’t made of wood but of woven air. Nathan stumbled forward. The forest didn’t resist him. Branches arched upward. Roots shifted subtly beneath his feet, guiding him. And all the while, he heard it again—music.

  A deep, reverberating tone. Like a cello bowed beneath the world. It was in the trees. In the soil. In his chest. It wasn’t terrifying. Not anymore. It was… familiar.

  “Nathan.”

  He turned instinctively, expecting to see Kalden. But the man wasn’t there. Only the path, leading deeper. He walked.

  He didn’t remember deciding to, but his feet moved. Every breath was easier here, every heartbeat calmer. The weight in his chest—the pressure he’d carried for months—had lessened, like the forest had lifted part of it just by letting him in.

  Then, he saw it. The clearing opened like a held breath. At its center stood a gate. Ancient and towering, formed of black iron filigree that shimmered with pale blue runes. The symbols pulsed gently, almost like they were breathing. The top of the gate arched into twisting spires, crowned with delicate glowing threads that floated like strands of hair in water.

  Beyond it—impossible. Stone towers, spires curved into the sky like inkbrush strokes. Floating lanterns lit the path to a bridge made of glass that arched over nothingness. The ground inside shimmered as if it weren’t earth at all but starlight pretending to be solid.

  Nathan stepped closer. The gate didn’t feel threatening. It felt… right. His hand lifted, fingers brushing the iron. The runes flared with soft warmth beneath his touch. The gate unlatched with a click that echoed like a bell. A song ended. A silence began. And then—

  “You’ve found it.” Kalden’s voice was just behind him now. Calm. Still not chasing. Nathan turned slowly. The man stood at the edge of the trees, rain running off his coat without touching it.

  “What is this place?” Nathan asked, not afraid now—just awed.

  Kalden’s expression softened. “The other side of you. The one you’ve been dreaming of since you were a child. You called it. It answered.”

  Nathan looked back at the gate. “Is it real?”

  “It’s yours,” Kalden said. “Whether it’s real depends on what you do next.”

  Nathan hesitated.

  Then he stepped forward.

  One foot past the threshold.

  The moment Nathan stepped through the gate, the world changed.

  Not just around him—but within him.

  The storm vanished like someone had flipped off a switch. The trees behind him stopped rustling. Even the distant hum of thunder disappeared. In its place came a hush—not empty, but full, like a cathedral between breaths.

  The path beneath his feet was smooth, pale stone laced with veins of faintly glowing gold. Silver-leaved trees lined the walkway, their trunks tall and slender, their canopies gently swaying in a breeze he couldn’t feel.

  Above him, the sky burned lavender and navy, streaked with constellations he didn’t recognize. Not stars—shapes. Runes. Diagrams written in light.

  And the air… it sang. Not in melody, but in sensation. Like every breath brought knowledge with it—emotions, memories that weren’t his. He blinked rapidly, grounding himself, gripping his own hoodie just to feel something normal.

  At the end of the path, a grand building rose—part castle, part cathedral, part something else entirely. Its towers spiralled in opposite directions. Its windows glowed not with light but with motion—fleeting shadows and fireflies behind glass.

  Then, the great doors opened. A girl stood in the entryway. She was tall, cloaked in a dark green robe embroidered with lines of copper thread that shimmered like circuits. Her skin was smooth and bronze-toned, and her eyes… they looked like polished obsidian, deep and unknowable.

  “You’re early,” she said with a wry smile, arms folded. “That’s rare.”

  Nathan stared, chest heaving slightly. “What is this place?”

  The girl tilted her head. “Did you not ask to come?”

  “No,” he said. “I… I was being chased. I ran.”

  Her smile didn’t fade. “Running often leads people here. But they usually arrive later. After more breaking.”

  Nathan looked behind him. The gate was gone. Only trees remained. Quiet and still. “I didn’t mean to cross over,” he said.

  “No one ever means to,” she said. “But something in you chose. And the University does not make mistakes.”

  Nathan swallowed hard. “University?”

  She stepped aside, motioning to the interior beyond her. “This is where you learn what you are. What you’ve always been. Where the world tries to define you—and fails.”

  He didn’t move. The girl met his gaze again, and her voice softened. “You don’t have to stay. The gate can take you back—for now. But it won’t always be open. And whatever called you here is waking up.”

  Nathan felt it then—a stirring inside his chest. A kind of pressure. Like a door cracking open. “I don’t even know who I am anymore,” he admitted.

  “That’s the point,” she said. “You’re here to find out.” He took a breath. The longest one yet. And then he stepped through the doors.They closed behind him with the sound of a heartbeat.