Gideon didn't tell anyone.
Not about the voice. Not about the shadow. Not about the way his reflection sometimes moved a second too late.
Because deep down, he knew the truth.
They wouldn't understand.
Or worse—
They would.
That night, as the village fires dimmed and silence took over, Gideon lay awake staring at the ceiling of his small wooden home.
Sleep never came easily to him.
Not when the dreams always felt more real than waking.
He closed his eyes anyway.
And immediately—
He fell.
Not into sleep.
Into something else.
Darkness surrounded him, thick and endless. No ground. No sky. Just void.
Then—
A pulse.
A faint glow appeared beneath his feet. Symbols—ancient, shifting, alive. They moved like breathing things, forming patterns that hurt to look at.
And in the center of it all—
A figure.
The same one from the forest.
This time, it stepped forward.
Its eyes burned—not with fire, but with absence. Like staring into a place where reality refused to exist.
"You're late," it said.
Gideon tried to speak, but no sound came out.
The figure tilted its head.
"You don't remember… do you?"
The symbols beneath Gideon's feet began to glow brighter, crawling up his legs like veins of light.
Pain exploded through his body.
He screamed—
And woke up.
Gasping.
Drenched in sweat.
His chest burned.
No—
Not burned.
Glowed.
Gideon looked down, hands shaking.
Beneath his skin, faint but undeniable, the same symbols from his dream pulsed with a dim, eerie light.
Alive.
Waiting.