Aether’s footsteps echoed along the cobblestone streets, each step a small defiance against the city’s hush. The morning’s strangeness clung to him like a second skin—the memory of the crack in the river, the blank book pressed against his ribs, the words that refused to leave his mind. If you see the void, do not look away. It is already looking at you.

  He passed beneath a row of flickering gas lamps, their glass globes etched with shifting symbols that only sometimes made sense. The city was waking up: shopkeepers sweeping stoops, children darting through alleys, the distant clang of a bell signaling the start of the workday. Yet everything felt slightly out of sync, as if the world operated on a script he hadn’t been given.

  Aether paused at a small bakery, its windows fogged with warmth. The scent of fresh bread and sweet spice drifted out, grounding him in the ordinary. He watched the baker—a broad-shouldered woman with flour dusting her hair—knead dough with practiced hands. She caught his gaze and offered a tired smile, the kind that said she’d seen him before, though perhaps not quite as he was today.

  He nodded in return, the gesture automatic. He wondered if she ever noticed the city’s oddities, or if her world was neatly contained within the walls of her shop. For a moment, he envied her certainty.

  Continuing on, Aether skirted the edge of the central square, where a statue of a faceless figure loomed over the market stalls. Its outstretched hand pointed toward the horizon, as if beckoning citizens to follow. Pigeons clustered at its feet, pecking at crumbs and bobbing their heads in silent rhythm.

  He stopped to watch the crowd. Vendors hawked wares—brightly colored cloth, jars of honey, bundles of strange herbs. A group of children played a game near the fountain, their laughter sharp and bright. Yet every so often, one would pause, glancing over a shoulder as if expecting to see something—or someone—lurking just out of sight.

  Aether felt the weight of the blank book in his satchel, its presence a silent challenge. He should go home, hide it, pretend none of this had happened. But the city itself seemed to press him onward, every familiar street now tinged with possibility and threat.

  He took a deep breath, letting the sounds and scents of the market wash over him. For a heartbeat, he almost convinced himself that everything was normal, that the world was whole. But then he caught sight of a man standing perfectly still at the edge of the square, eyes fixed on Aether with unsettling intensity. The man’s face was unremarkable, but his gaze was too steady, too knowing.

  Aether looked away, heart pounding. When he glanced back, the man was gone.

  He pressed forward, weaving through the crowd, the city’s pulse thrumming beneath his skin. Today, he realized, he was not just a spectator. The city was watching him, too.

  Aether’s path wound through the market’s shifting tapestry of sound and scent. He kept his head down, but every so often, he caught the feeling of eyes lingering on him—a prickling at the nape of his neck, a hush that fell when he passed. Was it paranoia, or was the city itself aware of him now, as if his glimpse of the void had marked him in ways he couldn’t see?

  He tried to lose himself in the crowd, pausing at a stall where a vendor arranged jars of honey in neat, glistening rows. The vendor’s hands moved with mechanical precision, never hesitating, never faltering. Aether watched, mesmerized, until the vendor looked up. Their eyes—gray, unfathomable—met his for a heartbeat too long. He mumbled thanks and moved on, the encounter leaving a chill in his bones.

  He passed a group of children playing a skipping game, their voices rising in a singsong rhyme. The words made no sense, tumbling over each other in a language half-remembered, half-invented. Yet as Aether listened, he caught a phrase that echoed the slip of paper in his pocket:

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  “If you see the shadow, don’t look away—

  Or the shadow will follow you home.”

  The game broke up in laughter, but Aether’s unease only deepened. He wondered if the children knew what they were singing, or if the rhyme was older than memory, passed down from those who’d glimpsed the world’s cracks before him.

  He continued on, weaving through the press of bodies, the city’s pulse thrumming beneath his feet. He noticed details he’d never seen before: a mural on a crumbling wall, its paint peeling to reveal a second image beneath—a pair of eyes, wide and watchful. A beggar at a street corner, muttering to himself in a cadence that almost matched the ticking of the unseen clock in the library. A cat perched atop a lamppost, staring at Aether with unsettling intelligence before darting away.

  Everywhere, signs and symbols seemed to shift when he looked directly at them, as if the city was rewriting itself in real time. He wondered if he’d always missed these things, or if his vision had changed since the morning on the bridge.

  Aether’s thoughts circled back to the blank book in his satchel. He resisted the urge to pull it out and check for new words, unwilling to draw more attention—or perhaps, more scrutiny—from whatever forces watched him. Instead, he pressed forward, determined to reach the sanctuary of his small apartment.

  As he turned onto his street, the world seemed to exhale. The noise of the market faded, replaced by the steady drip of water from a leaky gutter and the distant toll of the evening bell. For a moment, Aether allowed himself to believe he was alone again, just another face in the city’s endless crowd.

  But as he reached his door, he found a slip of paper wedged beneath the handle. The handwriting was the same trembling script as before.

  “You are being written. But you can still choose your next word.”

  Aether’s hand shook as he unlocked the door, the city’s eyes lingering in his mind. Inside, the silence waited, thick and expectant, as if the story was pausing—waiting for him to decide what came next.

  Aether closed the door behind him with a soft click, the noise swallowed by the thick hush of his apartment. The single window let in a slant of late afternoon light, painting shifting patterns on the worn wooden floor. He set the blank book on his narrow desk, its presence a silent challenge, and tried to shake off the feeling of being observed.

  He moved through the small space—kitchen, bedroom, study all bleeding into one another—performing the rituals of ordinary life. He filled the kettle, set it to boil, and watched the thin stream of steam curl upward, vanishing before it reached the ceiling. The scent of tea leaves, earthy and sharp, grounded him for a moment. He let his fingers linger on the chipped mug, savoring its warmth.

  But even here, in the supposed safety of home, the city’s strangeness pressed in. The ticking of his old clock seemed to falter, skipping beats or doubling back on itself. Shadows pooled in the corners, shifting when he wasn’t looking. He caught his own reflection in the window—pale, drawn, eyes too wide—and for a fleeting instant, it didn’t look like him at all.

  Aether sat at his desk, staring at the book. He resisted the urge to open it again, afraid of what he might—or might not—find. Instead, his thoughts spiraled inward, circling the day’s events. Why him? Why now? Was he unraveling, or was the world itself coming undone?

  He remembered the slip of paper at his door: You are being written. But you can still choose your next word. The words unsettled him, not just for their implication but for the possibility they offered. Was he truly a character in someone else’s story, or did he have the power to shape his own fate? The question gnawed at him, both terrifying and strangely liberating.

  He tried to recall the city as it once was, before the cracks appeared. Had it always been this strange, or had he simply never noticed? He thought of the bakery’s warmth, the children’s rhyme, the mural’s hidden eyes. Had these details always been there, waiting for him to see them? Or had his act of noticing changed the city itself?

  Aether’s gaze drifted to the window. Outside, dusk settled over the rooftops, the city’s lights flickering to life one by one. He watched as a figure paused beneath a streetlamp, looking up at his window—a silhouette, featureless and still. Aether blinked, and the figure was gone, leaving only the afterimage burned into his vision.

  He shivered, pulling his coat tighter around his shoulders. He felt exposed, as if the city’s gaze could pierce the walls and see the questions he barely dared to ask.

  He reached for the blank book, fingers trembling, and opened it once more. This time, a single line had appeared on the first page, written in the same trembling script:

  “Stories begin in darkness. Will yours end in light?”

  Aether closed his eyes, letting the words settle in his mind. He didn’t know the answer—but for the first time, he wanted to find out.