He wanted to talk with her. More than any moment in the world, he wanted to talk with her, tell her, “hey, I’m here, please help me. You are the only one who can help me.” He looked down, should he go back through the door? What if someone saw him? Or worse, what if nobody saw him and they ended up stepping on him?

  He looked back to his apartment, he could try and go back, maybe go under the door.

  …

  The window it was.

  John turned around so his face was facing the wall from the outside. He exhaled sharply, pressing his trembling fingers into the rough grooves of the bricks. The world stretched out beneath him, a dizzying abyss of concrete and green. His breath came fast, ragged. The only way was down.

  He swung one leg over the edge, testing his weight against the wall. The sensation of nothingness beneath him sent a shudder through his spine, but he forced himself to move. Slowly, he shifted his grip, lowering his body until he was hanging fully from the brick ledge. His fingers clenched so tightly they ached. He took one final breath, then reached downward.

  The brick’s surface was coarse, biting into his palms as he reached for the next groove. His arms burned with exertion, his fingers already raw. He adjusted his footing, pressing the palms of his feet into the wall, desperate for any traction. The drop beneath him felt impossibly vast, an ever-yawning void ready to swallow him whole.

  One brick at a time. Just one more.

  A gust of wind hit him, and his grip faltered. His heart lurched into his throat as his right hand slipped off the ledge. He dangled for a breathless moment, fingers scrambling against brick, feet skidding against the wall. A strangled gasp tore from his throat as he swung wildly, his left arm straining to keep him from plummeting. He kicked desperately, nails scraping for purchase, his entire body screaming for relief.

  Somehow, miraculously, his foot caught in a small recess, and he hauled himself closer to the wall, pressing his forehead against the rough surface. His chest heaved. He couldn’t stop now.

  Ignoring the fire in his muscles, he forced himself downward again, inching closer to the ground. His movements grew sloppier, each grip weaker than the last. His fingers were losing strength, his arms shaking beyond control. He could see the ground now—so close, maybe just three meters.

  Then—

  His hand gave out.

  He fell, a jolt of weightlessness sending his stomach into his throat. The air rushed past his ears, the ground racing toward him. He twisted, panic overtaking instinct, flailing for anything—

  He landed hard. Pain shot up his legs, his knees buckling as he hit the ground in an awkward roll. He tumbled onto the grass, breath knocked from his lungs. For a long moment, he could do nothing but lay there, eyes squeezed shut, body a trembling wreck of exhaustion. His hands burned, raw and bleeding. His legs throbbed from the impact. His chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven breaths.The cloth to clean glasses fell upon him after that.

  He was alive.

  John let out a choked laugh, breathless and shaking. He had made it.

  Now all he had to do was stand up.

  He stood up and tried to cover himself up again with the cloth, then walked towards the woman reading. Since she was facing towards the center of the park, the only thing he could see was her back. She was wearing a striped pink shirt with flowers and some red pants. He only had to walk through all the green and get to the red.

  As he pushed himself upright, the world loomed around him. The grass beneath his hands wasn’t soft, but coarse and thick, each blade as long as his fingers. The stems of flowers twisted high like impossible towers, their petals vast, colorful canopies swaying in an unseen wind. He turned his head, and the leaves of the bushes nearby quivered, their sheer size sending a wave of unease through his chest. It was as if he had wandered into a warped fairy tale.

  Then he heard the birds.

  The great thrushes, once little more than a park background, now resembled winged beasts, their feathers shifting in massive waves of motion. A few hopped along the ground nearby, their sudden, jerking movements unsettling in their precision.

  And then—farther away—came the sound of a dog barking.

  A shadow moved in the distance, bounding across the park with terrifying ease. Its paws thudded against the earth, each impact a reminder of how easily it could crush him. His breathing quickened. He was small. It made me laugh a bit, but he probably didn't find it funny.

  John’s breath hitched as he forced his trembling legs to move. The woman was still there sitting on a stone bench, her figure poised in quiet absorption. A book rested in her lap, its pages fluttering slightly with the breeze, though her fingers held them firm. One leg crossed over the other, her free hand occasionally drifting to turn a page.

  He pushed forward, his hands grazing against the coarse blades of grass as he ran. His chest burned, his heartbeat drumming in his ears, louder than the rustling leaves, louder than his own ragged breaths. He could see her now—a blur of movement beyond the field of green.

  Then, the shadow fell over him.

  John skidded to a stop, heart slamming against his ribs. A great thrush landed just a few steps ahead, its talons sinking into the earth with a weight that made the ground tremble beneath his feet. Its black eyes fixed on him, sharp, curious. The bird tilted its head, then took a single, deliberate hop forward.

  John couldn’t move. The thrush was enormous, and it wasn’t just looking at him—it was studying him. His breath came too fast, too shallow. He willed his legs to move, to step back, to run, but nothing obeyed. The thrush hopped again, closer, its beak parting slightly. John’s fingers twitched, but still, he was frozen. If it wanted to, it could tear into him, peck him apart, crush him beneath its claws.

  Then, a bark rang through the air.

  John flinched, but the thrush reacted faster. The instant the deep, guttural sound reached them, the bird sprang into motion, wings flaring wide. A gust of wind slammed against John as the thrush launched itself skyward. It vanished into the trees. John gasped, stumbling back. His entire body shook, his knees weak, his breath refusing to steady. But there was no time to recover. The bark had been closer. Too close.

  He ran as fast as he could towards the bench and when he arrived he tried to hide underneath it, maybe that way no birds or dogs would be able to see him. He walked forward so he could enter the vision field of the woman on the bench.

  John felt his stomach tighten, his breath catching in his throat as he followed the shape upward, his head tipping back, and back, and back—until his eyes finally found her.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  She was massive.

  To him, the woman on the bench was a monument, a colossus of impossible proportions. Every detail—her hands, her arms, the slope of her shoulders—was too large, too vast for his mind to fully comprehend. She sat at ease, her posture relaxed as she flipped a page in her book, unaware of the tiny creature staring at her in mute disbelief.

  Her fingers were thick columns, the tendons shifting like the tension of ropes as she adjusted her grip. The pages of her book rustled softly—a sound like a distant landslide to him. Even her simplest movements carried a force that made the air tremble around him. John clenched his fists to stop his hands from shaking. His mind screamed at him to move, to run, to do something—yet he stood rooted to the spot, helpless in the wake of the impossible.

  Then, she shifted.

  One of her feet—her enormous, impossible foot—moved slightly, causing a tremor beneath him. It wasn’t much, just a small adjustment in her sitting position, but it sent a pulse through the ground. His pulse pounded in his ears. The only thing keeping him from collapsing outright was the paralyzing fear gripping every inch of his being.

  For a moment, he could do nothing but stare. Every tiny motion of hers sent waves of movement through the world around him—like the turning of tides, like the shifting of mountains. He was an insect in her presence. No, even less than that.

  She still hadn’t noticed him.

  He tried to yell, but nothing came up, his voice was gone.

  He heard more barking lurking closer.

  The woman was focused on the book, but barely. I saw the pages of the book she was reading, it was some sort of weird story with funny dialogue about two fishermen living in enchanted wood with a weird daughter, but I stopped paying attention there. She was the kind of person that couldn’t get really concentrated, so she would stop by every minute to look at the sky, the flowers, the birds, the tiny little man in front of her….

  She blinked, but the tiny man was still there. She took her hands off the book and rubbed her eyes several times in disbelief. But the tiny guy was still looking at her, he wasn’t there a few moments ago. Was he moving? Yes, he seemed locked in place, looking at her, but she could see him breathing.

  John had seen fear before. He had felt it within himself, gripping his lungs like iron chains. But this was different.

  The woman’s entire body jerked upright, her book nearly falling into the floor. Her eyes flew wide, pupils constricting with raw shock, and her lips parted in a breathless, silent exclamation of disbelief. Her shoulders tensed, her fingers clutching the edges of the bench.

  “What the fuck.” She mouthed with her lips, not saying the thing out loud.

  For a brief moment, they simply stared at one another. She then looked around. Was there anyone else in the park? Was someone playing a prank on her? No—only a stray dog, and some birds.

  A dog that was coming closer.

  And closer.

  The mutt was a scrappy thing, ribs showing through its dull coat, nose low to the ground as it sniffed, searching. It hadn’t noticed him yet—but John could see the moment it did. The dog’s ears pricked up. Its head tilted. Then, in one swift motion, it took a step forward.

  John’s breath stopped.

  The woman saw it too.

  John turned on his heel and bolted, but his tiny legs could only cover so much ground. The dog lunged, a low growl rumbling from its throat, nails scraping against the pavement as it picked up speed.

  The woman moved.

  John barely had time to register the shadow sweeping over him before the wind howled past, a great wall of motion rising behind him. The earth trembled. He gasped as he was suddenly scooped up, his stomach lurching with the force of it. The world around him spun—an overwhelming rush of motion, a terrifying weightlessness, as if he were in free fall.

  The dog skidded to a halt, startled, but quickly recovered. It barked at her, sharp and insistent.

  With an irritated sigh, she tucked her book under her arm, adjusting her grip around John to cradle him more securely. Clicking her tongue in annoyance, she turned on her heel and strode toward the park’s exit.

  John barely had time to process what was happening—his entire world tilting, rising, jolting with every step she took. He pressed against her fingers, his breath still shallow.

  The dog trailed after them for a few steps, sniffing the air, barking at her, but it hesitated as they neared the entrance of a building. She stepped inside quickly, using her elbow to push the glass door shut just before the dog could slip in. The muffled sound of its barking faded as the door sealed.

  She exhaled, relief washing over her.

  At the reception desk, the security guard looked up, raising an eyebrow with an amused smirk. He had clearly seen her little encounter with the dog, but she ignored him, rolling her eyes before continuing toward the elevator.

  John remained hidden between her hands—small, unnoticed.

  When she reached the stairs, however, there was no avoiding it. Each step sent him through a brutal rise and drop, a nauseating rhythm of abrupt movements that made his stomach churn. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to endure it, but it felt like an endless, stomach-flipping ride.

  At her door, she fumbled in her bag for the keys, her grip on him shifting slightly but still careful. Finally, the lock clicked, and she stepped inside.

  The door shut behind her.

  And at last, after what had felt like an absolutely demolishing rollercoaster, she lowered him onto a desk.

  John collapsed onto his hands and knees, the room spinning around him. He felt like he was about to vomit. The ground beneath him was finally still, solid, unmoving. He focused on the grain of the wood, tracing its tiny ridges and imperfections with his eyes, forcing himself to believe in its stability.

  Seconds dragged. Then minutes.

  His heart still pounded in his ears, the echoes of that dizzying ascent rattling in his bones. The memory of each step—each sudden, lurching shift—still played in his body like an aftershock. The weightlessness, the stomach-churning drops, the oppressive force of motion that had made him feel like a loose coin rattling in a giant’s pocket. Even now, he could feel phantom movements, his balance skewed as though the floor might give way beneath him at any second.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  The nausea ebbed slowly, retreating like a tide. His arms stopped trembling. His head felt a little clearer. He swallowed against the lingering unease, exhaling through his nose, and finally, after what felt like an eternity, he lifted his head.

  And she was there.

  The woman sat before him, watching in silence, her face filled with curiosity and confusion. She hadn’t said a word.

  His breath hitched.

  Her presence filled the space, her body a wall of motion and breath. Her hand—the very one that had held him so effortlessly—rested on the desk near him, and it was nearly his height. The fingers curled slightly, relaxed, each one thicker than his limbs. Her palm alone was a surface vast enough that he could imagine standing on it with room to spare.

  From where he sat, he had to look up at her, craning his neck. The sheer mass of her, the way her torso stretched upward, the way her head seemed so impossibly high—it was as though he were staring at a statue come to life.

  Her eyes were locked onto him, scanning, searching, lingering on his every tiny movement. He could feel the weight of her attention, pressing down on him like an invisible force.

  "I'm sorry I shook you so much," she said, her voice a force of nature, a tremor in the very air around him. "I was afraid the dog would eat you, or that someone else would see you. I won’t do it again."

  John didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.

  It wasn’t just the volume—though it was immense. It was the depth of it, the way it surrounded him completely, like he was standing inside the echo of a cathedral bell. Every vowel carried a resonance that shivered through his ribs. Every consonant landed with the weight of a distant but inescapable thunder.

  His ears rang from it, not in pain, but in sheer immensity. It was like hearing sound for the first time.

  And it was her.

  This towering, impossible figure, looking down at him with eyes that were too large, too expressive, too present. He could feel her voice in the air. He could feel her breath in the shift of warmth around him.

  His own breath hitched. His mouth opened—instinct more than intention—but no sound came out. He had no voice. Not here. Not now.

  She waited.

  And for the first time in his life, silence wasn’t just absence. It was something bigger than him.

  His breath hitched. The silence stretched, heavy, suffocating. He swallowed hard, but his throat felt tight, like it might close up entirely.

  Then, the words tumbled out before he could stop them.

  “Don’t eat me—”

  It was barely more than a whisper, a broken, breathless plea. Then his voice cracked, and suddenly, everything was spilling out, messy and frantic:

  “I—I was just a normal person like you until two days ago—I swear, I don’t know what happened—I don’t—I’m in trouble, I—”

  His voice wavered, and the rest crumbled into a gasping, choked-off silence. His legs buckled slightly, his body trembling from exhaustion, fear, the sheer weight of it all pressing down on him at once.

  The woman, still watching him with that same puzzled expression, slowly extended a hand. One enormous finger—just her index finger—offered gently, palm-up.

  John hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then he stepped forward and grabbed onto it with both arms, clinging to it like it was the only solid thing in the world. His fingers dug into the warmth of her skin, and the moment the reality of it hit him—the warmth, the softness, the sheer size of it—his body finally gave in.

  A sob tore out of his throat. Then another. His shoulders shook, his grip tightening as he pressed his face into the curve of her finger, as if curling into someone’s embrace.

  He let himself cry.