You have discovered the city of Dawnmire.

  Once outside the tavern, I can’t help but be amazed by the new world. Just like the tavern, there are different races of creatures all around. I look around and see shops with unique storefronts and signs. Across from the tavern, there appears to be some type of forge. The sign out front reads Mistborn Forge. Just in front of the double doors leading inside, another sign reads: Custom-made items with personal meanings, symbolic talismans, and artwork related to overcoming adversity.

  I look to my left and right but don’t see any sign that points to the Council of Clerics. To be honest, I can’t see much at all. The town seems shrouded in a mist—a fog or hanging cloud that grows thicker and thicker the more I try to focus on the landscape.

  I decide to check my map. As I focus on it, the map begins to populate, but only partially. Fog obscures most of the area, revealing only a few buildings and rooftops. Frustrated, I glance around the town again and notice the heavy fog stubbornly refusing to clear.

  I look to my left and right once more, still unable to see anything clearly. I focus on my map again and realize it’s almost completely blacked out, like in a video game where you need to explore to reveal new areas. Standing there, I pull out the physical copy of my map to compare, hoping for more clarity. Of course, it’s the same.

  What am I going to do?

  At that moment, a small hobbit emerged from the store next to the tavern.

  “Excuse me, young man. You look quite lost. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Actually, yes,” I replied. “I’m looking at my map and trying to find the Council of Clerics, but I can’t seem to see it anywhere.”

  “Oh, why, silly! It’s right here,” the hobbit said, pointing to a section of the map that was blacked out. “See? You just have to go down this road here, take a left, and follow it all the way. You’ll find the clerics—you can’t miss their location.”

  I looked back at the hobbit, then down at the map. Maybe he could see something I couldn’t yet. “I’m sorry, Master Hobbit, but do you mind…” My voice trailed off as a thought struck me: Master Hobbit? Good Lord, you’ve read too many fantasy novels.

  I immediately noticed a puzzled expression on the hobbit’s face, as though he were trying to decide whether I’d been lost in my head too long, talking to myself, or if I simply wasn’t familiar with the proper way to address people in this realm.

  “Sorry, can you point that out again on the map?” I asked, sheepishly.

  The hobbit obliged, pointing to the dark space on the map once more. I made an indent with my thumb and forefinger to mark the spot, carefully noting the distance he described. Maybe I could navigate that way and use it as a sort of compass to find my way.

  As I began making my way through the city, I noticed something peculiar—the physical map in my hand was updating as I moved, slowly unlocking sections. Just like a video game, the map revealed itself as I explored, showing me new surroundings as I discovered them.

  I looked up and down the street at the various shops, marveling at the details. This world feels so immersive, I thought, it’s almost like anything but therapy.

  I start to take in the sights, the sounds, the smells—everything I can partially experience. For a moment, I’m mesmerized. I look down at the ground, tracing the cobblestone pattern with my eyes, and I can’t help but feel amazed by the world around me. Just for that fleeting instant, my anxiety and depression are gone. I’ve escaped those worries—if only temporarily.

  But make no mistake—I’m terrified. Petrified, even. The realization hits me like a wave: I’m in an entirely new world, and I have to learn how to navigate it. As I glance around, I see not just humans, elves, dwarves, and hobbits, but also minotaurs, beastkin, lizardfolk, and catfolk. My heart races. My breath quickens. My neck starts to tense, the stress snaking its way from my shoulders down my spine. I can feel my knees faltering under the weight of my own body.

  What am I supposed to gain from this therapy? I think, my mind spiraling. What am I supposed to do? What’s the point of any of this?

  Sure, it’s incredible. I’m in what is essentially a fantasy world, a video game brought to life. The sights, the smells, the details—they’re all so cool. I should be thrilled, right? But something lingers within me, a gnawing presence that won’t let me be happy. It’s like my brain refuses to allow it, like contentment isn’t in the cards for me.

  I close my eyes for a second, trying to ground myself. Keep moving forward, I whisper in my mind. Just keep moving forward. Even if it’s scary. Even if it’s terrifying. Even if it feels like the weight of it all is going to crush you.

  With that, I force myself to take another step, and then another. Keep moving forward, I tell myself again, clinging to the words like a lifeline.

  I anchor my feet into the ground, pressing them firmly against the cobblestones, as if rooting myself to this strange, overwhelming world. The weight of my anxiety feels like it’s going to pull me under, but I hold on, trying desperately to stabilize my mood. Find something—anything—that can move you forward, I tell myself. Just one step.

  The fear is immense, suffocating, but I won’t let it win. I take a deep breath in, letting the cool air fill my lungs, and exhale slowly, trying to steady the trembling in my hands. My gaze shifts upward, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I really try to focus—not on the fear, but on the people around me.

  The streets are alive with activity, full of faces and forms I’d never thought I’d see. Humans, elves, dwarves, hobbits, and all the others. Minotaurs carrying goods in massive packs. Catfolk chatting animatedly near a shop window. Lizardkin sharpening weapons outside a forge. There’s a rhythm to it, a world unfolding right in front of me.

  What am I missing? I wonder. There’s something here, something beyond the fear clawing at me. If I can just hold on long enough, I might start to see it.

  As I look up and down the street, my eyes are drawn to a bookstore tucked between two other shops. A wooden sign hangs from the top of the store, swaying slightly in the breeze. It reads "The Phoenix's Feather" and features a beautifully carved image of a phoenix rising from the pages of an open book. Just seeing it sparks something familiar inside me—a comfort I’ve always found in books and reading. Whether it’s for pure enjoyment or learning whatever has captured my interest at the moment, books have always been a refuge.

  I step closer and notice the stained glass window. The sunlight filters through it, illuminating the words painted delicately on the glass: “Where stories rise from the ashes.” The lettering glows faintly in the morning mist, like the words themselves hold some kind of magic. I can’t help but peek through the window, my curiosity getting the better of me.

  Inside, the shop is overwhelming in the best way possible. Shelves stretch from floor to ceiling, stacked with books, scrolls, and parchment. The walls are lined with them, every inch of space consumed. But unlike bookstores in the real world, the books here are bound in materials that shimmer and pulse with faint magic—glowing softly as if alive. The sight pulls me in, a small part of me forgetting, just for a moment, where I am.

  I feel the urge to push open the door and step inside, to lose myself in the pages of whatever this world’s stories hold. For a brief, shining moment, I imagine buying something—some glowing tome or enchanted scroll—bringing it with me, holding onto it.

  And then reality sets in like a dull ache. I don’t have any money here. If I did, it would just be game currency—something intangible, useless in the world I actually live in. Even if I bought a book, I couldn’t keep it. I couldn’t take it with me.

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  The thought weighs on me. This place, for all its beauty and wonder, isn’t really mine. It’s just another reminder of how separate I feel from everything—this world and my own.

  Still, I linger outside the shop for another moment, unable to pull my eyes away. There’s something about those glowing books, about the promise in the stained glass window, that calls to me.

  Just then, a notification flashes across my vision: “You have received a message.” I blink, focusing on it, and immediately, the message expands in my mind. The doctor’s voice comes through—calm, professional,

  Hello Frank. Quick update on your biometric telemetry and neuro feedback loops—everything is within optimal thresholds. Cognitive processing, heart rate variability, and neural activity are all aligning as expected. You’re performing exceptionally well in this simulation environment. Remember, this space is a controlled construct, specifically designed to facilitate emotional recalibration and cognitive resilience. Your engagement is crucial—immerse yourself, invest in the process, and allow your adaptive pathways to form. This environment offers all the sensory and emotional stimulation of the real world but within a risk-mitigated framework. Explore it fully and trust the system.”

  The voice cuts out as cleanly as it began, and the notification disappears, unblocking my vision.

  I stand there for a moment, the words still echoing in my head. Neuro feedback loops, adaptive pathways… sounds a little bit over my head to understand, yet makes me feel a sense of calm.

  As I continue past the bookstore, I take in the sheer variety of establishments around me: taverns, inns, potion shops, magic emporiums, wine cellars, weapon stores, forges, blacksmith workshops—even guild halls. The sheer level of detail is overwhelming. It’s like the world itself is alive, breathing around me.

  Curious, I take a quick glance at my map. I notice that more of the previously fogged areas have been revealed. Buildings I’ve passed by are now labeled, their names etched neatly onto the parchment. The sense of progression feels almost like annotating notes for a school subject—each step I take, another piece of knowledge earned.

  Something catches my eye to the left. A building appears on my map, but oddly enough, it’s unnamed. I look up to confirm what I see and spot a small, cozy building tucked into the mist. The wooden sign out front reads “The Soul Weaver's Cafe.” I glance back down at my map and watch in awe as the name fills itself in, as though the map has taken note of my discovery.

  How incredible. It’s like a real-time journal unfolding in my hands. Every corner of this world unlocks only as I experience it—like learning something new for the very first time.

  But then I remember the indent I made earlier on the map with my thumb and forefinger—the makeshift marker for the Council of Clerics. My eyes drift toward the right side of the map, and I realize I still have a little ways to go.

  As I look up, I’m met with the same hazy, persistent fog. Even the areas I’ve already uncovered remain blanketed in mist, as though the entire town refuses to let go of its secrets. This isn’t just about discovery—it’s something else. This fog isn’t tied to the map; it’s everywhere, swallowing the town whole and shrouding it in a strange, dreamlike stillness.

  As I continue through the city, I come across a wooden signpost standing tall at a crossroads. Multiple arrows jut out in different directions, each etched with the names of towns and cities. My eyes trace up and down the post, trying to find where I am, when one name catches my attention: The Council of Clerics.

  The arrow points left, down a path shrouded in thick fog. I freeze. Anxiety wells up inside me, rising from my chest like an unstoppable tide. For some reason, I can’t bring myself to move. It’s as if an invisible barrier has rooted me to the ground. Even here, in a virtual world designed for my comfort, I’m paralyzed.

  I stare at the sign, willing myself to take a step. Why can’t I just go? My thoughts spiral. Why does it always feel like this? I used to be so full of life—motivated, unshakable. And now? Now I’m scared of my own shadow, burdened by a fear I can’t name or understand. Years of therapy, countless doctors, endless self-reflection... and still, no one can tell me what broke inside me.

  With a deep, shaky breath, I force my feet to move. I make the turn toward the Council of Clerics. The path winds upward, and I notice the ground beneath me has changed. Each step lands on carefully laid stones, uneven but solid, leading me higher into the mist.

  As I climb, the fog grows denser, swallowing everything beyond a few feet ahead. My mind begins to race. How long will I be climbing? I can’t see where this path leads—or if it even leads anywhere. Step after step, the questions flood my thoughts. What is the purpose of this? Why am I climbing?

  I glance around, trying to make sense of it. In a world where anything is possible—trees with leaves of every color, crystal-clear waters teeming with fantastical fish, skies filled with birds that sing songs never heard before—why cover everything in mist? What’s the point of crafting a reality so vibrant, only to hide it behind a veil?

  I shake my head. This has to be part of the program, I tell myself. Maybe it’s an intentional choice, a design quirk from the doctor. He probably thought starting in a town shrouded in mystery would make the experience more engaging, more like the fantasy novels he must have loved. I should’ve asked him what his favorite books were, I think bitterly. At least then I’d have some idea of the kind of world he was trying to build.

  And yet, as frustrating as it is, I can’t deny that the climb is forcing me to keep going. Each step is a quiet defiance, a small victory over the fear that constantly tries to drag me down. The path is steep, the mist is thick, and the questions are loud—but I’m still moving forward.

  As I continue to climb, my mind starts racing again. Why haven’t I asked any of these questions before? This overwhelming feeling of frustration bubbles up. I recognize the pattern: I’ve been so consumed by anxiety, I can’t seem to plan for anything. It’s like my mind is constantly working overtime, running through hundreds of different scenarios of what might happen in every situation I encounter. And most of it happens inside my head, things that will never come to pass. But some of those scenarios aren’t just thoughts—they make me furious. I get angry at myself for even having them, but I don’t know why. No therapist or doctor has been able to explain it, and frankly, I’m starting to wonder if anyone ever will.

  My stomach churns, and a tight knot forms in my gut as I climb higher, each step increasing the weight of my frustration. My anger rises with each movement. Why can’t I just move past this? Why am I so damn broken? I can feel the tension building in my chest, suffocating me, as if the anger itself is trapped beneath my ribs, trying to force its way out. And yet, even as I wrestle with it, the fog begins to thin, dissipating just enough for me to see beyond it.

  And there it is—the Council of Clerics.

  Before me stands a towering, white stone structure, its walls lined with intricate crevices and veins of glowing color that pulse through the stone as if the building itself is alive. The faint, rhythmic glow almost feels like it’s breathing, exhaling energy into the air around it. I stare at the magnificent sight, feeling small and insignificant in comparison to the enormity of it all.

  What’s even stranger is the way the fog reacts to it. Unlike the town, where the mist would shift and swirl with every step I took, the fog around the tower simply... doesn’t. It’s as though the tower repels it, creating an invisible barrier that holds the mist at bay, keeping it from coming any closer.

  For the first time in what feels like forever, the anxiety in my chest ebbs—just a little. But it’s not gone, not completely. It’s still there, lurking, as I stand at the foot of this monumental building. But the sight of it, the way it repels the fog, offers me something I hadn’t realized I needed: a sense of purpose, a place to be.

  Now, I just need to take the next step.

  As I continue to make my way around, my feet dragging with each step, I descend a few more stone steps, my gaze locked on the towering structure ahead. I can feel my heart racing as the weight of my anxiety presses down on me with each step, building in my stomach like a knot of dread.

  And then, a sharp notification rings through my head—like the echo of a gong—

  You have discovered The Sanctum of Elysian Wisdom- Home to The Council of Clerics

  The words hit me harder than I expected. Anxiety surges, and I feel my body begin to tense up, my limbs stiffening. It's as though my entire body is trying to fold inward, retreating into itself. My stomach churns, a familiar acid reflux rising in my throat, making me feel physically sick. The thought of what comes next—of knocking on that door, of speaking to someone, of having to engage with the unknown—it's too much.

  I haven’t prepared for this. I haven’t rehearsed anything. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I freeze up in front of them? What if they think I’m strange, or worse, unworthy of being here? I didn’t plan for this. I didn’t plan for any of it.

  In most video games, I wouldn’t be worrying about these things. But this isn’t like any game I’ve played before. This world feels real, and it’s too real for comfort. I glance around, watching as a giant Minotaur, casually reading a book, walks past me with the graceful air of someone who belongs here, someone who’s confident in their place in this world. I feel even more out of place now, like I’m the only one struggling to fit in.

  I swallow hard, trying to push down the wave of nausea, and before I can think further, I raise my hand to knock on the giant twin oak doors that radiant with mana and reach to the sky . The sound echoes through the air, and for a moment, it feels like time has slowed.

  The doors swing open in response, and I take a deep breath in… I slow let it leave my lungs.

  I take a step forward and find myself walking through the threshold.