The world was still.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Ethan stood in the middle of the street without the weight of the past pressing on him. The evening air was cool. The sun was barely a memory beneath the horizon. It was peaceful—the kind of quiet that promised resolution. The kind that told you something had ended, even if you couldn't quite say what.
He took a deep breath, feeling the calm seep into his bones. It felt real. And yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, doubt lingered.
Had he really woken up?
Or was this just another layer of the dream?
"Did I make it?" he asked softly, the words leaving his mouth before he could stop them.
He looked around, as if the street itself might answer him. But there was only silence—just the fading glow of streetlights, the hum of distant traffic, and the soft rustle of wind through the trees.
Nothing had changed.
And yet, everything had.
His eyes drifted back to the bookstore—the same one he had entered what felt like a lifetime ago. The same place where an old man had smiled at him like he'd been expecting Ethan all along. Like the story had already been written.
"Sometimes," the man had said, "the stories find us. And sometimes we find the stories. But it's always a little of both."
Was that it?
Was this the ending?
No more puzzles. No more questions. Just stillness.
And yet…
Ethan's gaze lingered on the door of the bookstore. Something felt unfinished. A faint tug in his chest, a sense that one last truth remained just out of reach.
He stepped forward.
But this time, the door didn't open. It stayed shut—motionless, unmoved—as if frozen in time. He reached for the handle, but his hand hesitated.
Then—a whisper.
So faint it could've been the wind. But it wasn't.
"You're in my dream. Wake up."
His hand hovered midair. His breath caught.
The words didn't feel like an instruction.
They felt like a reminder.
A reminder of what?
He turned from the door, staring down the darkened street. Was this truly reality? Or had the dream simply folded in on itself again, like paper creased a thousand times until the lines disappeared?
He wasn't sure.
The street was empty. But his footsteps echoed as he walked, the sound carrying farther than it should. He kept moving, heart pounding softly in his chest, each step chasing a question that had no shape.
How would he know if he had really woken up?
Was it even possible to tell?
Above him, the stars began to vanish—one by one—blinking out like dying fireflies. The sky dulled. The world blurred at the edges, like an old photograph soaked in water.
And then… the smallest flicker.
A single streetlight blinked—once, twice—and went dark.
Ethan stopped. He turned slowly, staring at the now-shadowed street. The lights. The wind. The fading.
Something was wrong.
Or maybe… something was finally right.
The trees rustled more fiercely now, and a voice—the same voice as before—spoke clearly in his mind, louder this time, calm and certain:
"This is the first place you ever dreamed."
He froze.
The weight of the words pressed into him like gravity. His chest tightened. His fingers tingled, as if the fabric of reality itself was starting to loosen around him.
He knew the answer.
He had known it all along.
But it didn't matter.
Because what if—just what if—he hadn't woken up yet?