Aether had always known the world was a lie. Not in the way of childhood suspicions or the half-believed stories whispered by old men at dusk, but in a way that gnawed at the edges of his mind—a certainty that reality was only a mask, and something monstrous lurked beneath.

  It was in the way the city’s light fractured each morning, splitting into colors that seemed to argue with one another, refusing to blend. It was in the silence that pressed in after the bells tolled seven, as if the city itself was holding its breath, waiting for a cue. It was in the way people moved: too smoothly, too predictably, their faces flickering with expressions that didn’t quite fit, like actors who’d forgotten their lines.

  Today, the lie was thinner than ever. The world felt brittle, as if the wrong word or gesture might shatter it. Aether stood on the bridge, staring down at the river. Its surface was perfectly still, reflecting the sky in impossible detail. He leaned over, searching for movement, for proof that the world was still alive.

  Instead, he saw a crack. Not in the water, but in the air itself—a hairline fracture running vertically through the reflection, pulsing with a faint, sickly light. For a moment, he thought he heard whispers leaking through the fissure, voices speaking in a language he almost understood.

  He blinked, and the crack was gone. The river flowed again, the city’s noise returned, and the world resumed its charade. But Aether’s heart hammered in his chest, and the certainty of the lie was stronger than ever.

  He turned away from the bridge, his mind racing. He remembered last night’s dream—a dream that felt more like a memory. In it, he’d been suspended in a gray void, weightless and alone. A screen had floated before him, flickering with symbols he couldn’t read. A voice had spoken, gentle and amused:

  "You are the main character in the story I am writing."

  Aether shivered. He could still feel the echo of that voice, as if it had left a mark on his soul. Was it madness, or had he glimpsed the truth behind the world’s mask?

  He hurried through the city’s labyrinthine streets, past statues that seemed to watch him with knowing eyes, past alleys that twisted in ways that defied geometry. He reached the old library, its doors carved with symbols that shifted when he wasn’t looking directly at them.

  Inside, the air was thick with dust and secrets. The librarian’s gaze lingered on him a moment too long, her eyes reflecting a flicker of that same sickly light he’d seen in the river. He made his way to the forbidden stacks, drawn by a compulsion he couldn’t name.

  There, nestled between volumes that hummed with silent menace, was a thin, leather-bound book. No title. No author. As he touched it, a cold shock ran up his arm. A slip of paper slid out, drifting to the floor.

  He picked it up. The words, written in trembling ink, read:

  “If you see the void, do not look away. It is already looking at you.”

  Aether’s breath caught. He opened the book. The pages were blank—except for the faintest impression, as if words had been written and then erased. In the margin, a single phrase lingered, barely visible:

  "This is not your story. Not yet."

  The library lights flickered. Somewhere, deep in the stacks, something began to move.

  Aether’s hands trembled as he traced the faded ink on the slip of paper. The words—If you see the void, do not look away. It is already looking at you—echoed in his mind, threading through memories he wasn’t sure were his own. He tried to steady his breathing, but the library’s silence pressed in, thick and watchful, as if the walls themselves were listening.

  He glanced around. The librarian was gone, vanished as quietly as she’d appeared. The only sound was the faint, rhythmic ticking of an ancient clock hidden somewhere among the stacks. Each tick felt like a countdown, though to what, Aether couldn’t say.

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

  He slid the blank book under his arm and retreated to a shadowed alcove—a place he’d claimed as his own over years of restless searching. Here, surrounded by forgotten tomes and dust-laden air, he could almost believe he was alone with his thoughts. Almost.

  He opened the book again. The pages were still empty, but as he turned them, he noticed faint impressions—indentations left by a vanished pen, like the ghost of a story erased. He tilted the book toward the light, and for a moment, he saw a single word shimmer into existence before fading: remember.

  Aether’s mind raced. Was it a message? A warning? Or just another trick of his exhausted senses? He pressed his fingertips to the page, half-expecting to feel a pulse beneath the paper.

  He thought of the dream again—the void, the screen, the voice calling him the main character. The memory was so vivid it felt more real than the world around him. Had he always been haunted by these visions, or had something changed? Was he losing his grip on reality, or was reality itself slipping?

  A sudden chill swept through the alcove. The shadows deepened, and the air grew heavy with the scent of old ink and something sharper—ozone, like the aftermath of a lightning strike. The clock’s ticking faltered, then stopped.

  Aether looked up. The world seemed to tilt. For a heartbeat, the library’s shelves stretched impossibly tall, their books shifting and reshaping, words crawling across their spines in languages he didn’t recognize. The light flickered, and in the reflection of a dusty window, he saw not his own face but a blurred silhouette—a figure watching from the other side of the glass.

  He blinked, and the vision vanished. The shelves returned to normal, the ticking resumed, but the sense of being observed lingered, prickling at the back of his neck.

  Aether closed the book, clutching it to his chest. He needed answers, but every step toward the truth seemed to unravel the world further. Was he the only one who saw the cracks? Or were there others, hidden among the city’s indifferent crowds, who also glimpsed the void beneath the surface?

  He stood, his resolve hardening. If the world was a mask, he would find out what lay beneath—even if it meant staring into the void and risking whatever stared back.

  As he left the alcove, the slip of paper fluttered to the floor. It landed face up, the ink bleeding into the grain of the wood, as if the words themselves were sinking away:

  Do not look away.

  The city’s air had changed by the time Aether stepped back outside. Clouds gathered overhead, swirling in unnatural patterns, as if someone had dragged a brush through wet paint. The streets were busier now, but the faces in the crowd seemed blurred, indistinct—like characters hastily sketched and left unfinished.

  Aether clutched the blank book to his chest, feeling its weight as both burden and anchor. Every step away from the library seemed to pull him deeper into uncertainty. He tried to focus on the ordinary: the rhythm of his footsteps, the chill of the wind, the distant tolling of bells. But the world refused to settle. Colors bled at the edges of his vision; sounds stretched and warped, echoing too long or cutting off too soon.

  He passed a street vendor selling newspapers. The headlines shifted as he glanced at them—one moment reporting a political scandal, the next a story about a missing child, then a headline in a language he’d never seen before. Aether blinked, and the words snapped back to normal, but a cold sweat prickled his skin. He wondered if anyone else noticed, or if the world only glitched for him.

  He ducked into a narrow alley, seeking respite from the chaos. The alley was lined with old posters, their images peeling and colors faded. One poster caught his eye—a silhouette standing at the edge of a void, words scrawled beneath: What is written can be unwritten.

  Aether stared at the poster, heart pounding. Was it a warning? A threat? Or a clue left by someone else who’d seen the cracks?

  He slid down the wall, the book still pressed to his chest, and closed his eyes. The city’s noise faded, replaced by a low, insistent hum—like the static between radio stations. In the darkness behind his eyelids, shapes twisted and danced: fragments of memory, dreams, and something else. He saw the void again, endless and gray, and the screen with its shifting symbols.

  This time, the voice was clearer, closer. It spoke not in words, but in intent—a presence brushing against his thoughts, playful and cold.

  "You’re doing well, Aether. Most look away. You keep watching."

  Aether’s eyes snapped open. The alley was empty, but the hum lingered in his bones. He looked down at the book; the cover was no longer blank. A single word had appeared, etched in silver script:

  Begin.

  Aether rose, a strange resolve settling over him. He didn’t know what he was beginning, or what it would cost. But he knew he couldn’t turn back—not now, not when the world was finally starting to reveal its secrets.

  Above, the clouds parted for a moment, letting through a shaft of light that seemed to spotlight him alone. For the first time, Aether wondered if he was truly alone in his search—or if someone, somewhere, was watching, waiting for him to take the next step.

  He stepped out of the alley, into a world that felt both familiar and impossibly new, the word Begin burning in his mind.