Morning crept in—not with warmth, but with the dull ache of something broken, bruised and still pulsing beneath the surface.
The scent of overcooked toast drifted through the thin walls, tangled with the sound of dishes clattering and voices raised—sharp, bitter, and tired. I lay still, staring at the ceiling, watching the tiny cracks like veins of a world quietly falling apart.
Each breath felt heavier than the last.
Another day. Another mask.
When I finally moved, it was out of habit, not will—dressing myself like armor, dragging a brush through my hair, piecing myself together with numb fingers.
Downstairs, Mom barked orders without looking at me. Her voice, brittle with exhaustion, cracked against the silence I wore like skin.
I slipped out the door like a ghost.
Outside, the world was gray.
At school, even grayer.
The halls buzzed with lives I wasn't part of—laughs I wasn't invited into, glances that passed through me like I wasn't there.
I kept my head down in class, scribbling nonsense on paper—shapes and lines, trying to quiet the storm inside.
Until they noticed me.
A balloon under the chair.
A splash of freezing water.
Laughter erupting like firecrackers.
I sat there, drenched, the chill biting deep.
But I didn't cry. I didn't speak.
I let it pass through me—just another wound I wouldn't name.
At home, it was waiting.
"Why are you like this?"
"Why can't you be more like your sisters?"
"Why do you always bring this on yourself?"
Each word landed like a slap, invisible bruises blooming behind my ribs.
That night, I returned to the only safe place left—my room. My bed. My music.
I curled up with my old MP3 player like it was a relic from a better time.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
The songs bled into each other, a lullaby for the tired and unseen.
And in the quiet between notes, I wished—not for love, not for change, but simply to disappear.
Sleep took me slowly, like a tide pulling me under.
And then—just as I began to drift—I felt it.
A light.
Not around me, but inside.
Soft. Ancient. Knowing.
It didn't speak.
It invited.
Somewhere between waking and dream, a door began to form—not from wood or glass, but light stitched from memory and stardust.
And without knowing why, I stood.
The air was different—thinner, weightless, tinged with a scent that felt like a forgotten childhood.
I was no longer in my room.
I stood in a space of pale clouds and endless sky, the ground beneath me soft and glowing like mist. And ahead—he waited.
Not human. Not quite.
A presence made of light and thought, shaped by longing.
"You found the way," he said.
His voice wasn't heard, but felt—like a truth unfolding inside me.
"Where... am I?" I asked, barely breathing.
He reached toward me—not with a hand, but a strand of shimmering light. I didn't hesitate.
I followed.
We walked toward a door, radiant and alive, carved from stars. And beyond it—
The universe opened.
Galaxies spun like dancers.
Planets shimmered like jewels.
All of space hummed with possibility.
"This," he said, "is The Link.
The bridge between worlds.
Where every beginning—and every end—is born."
I stared, awestruck, as the stars whispered stories I had never known, but somehow understood.
And there, in the distance, I saw Earth.
Small. Fragile. Beautiful in its brokenness.
"Why me?" I asked, not sure I wanted the answer.
"Because you are the last one who carries the Light," he replied.
"In a time when even the gods have turned away... you still believe."
His words struck something deep—something buried beneath years of silence, pain, and pretending.
And in that moment, I understood:
my life had never been ordinary.
It had always been leading here.
But as I stood at the edge of that breathtaking bridge, I felt it—a presence, just beyond the stars.
Watching.
Waiting.
And I knew:
I hadn't come alone.
