Darkness wasn't the absence of light.
It was the weight of forgotten memories.
Jay stood in a corridor with no floor, no ceiling, just endless doors suspended midair. Each door whispered—laughs, screams, sighs—ghosts of who he could've been.
He didn't know how long he'd been here.
Time didn't pass. It folded.
He reached for one door, trembling. It opened—
—and he was six years old, alone at the dinner table.
Mom had forgotten again. Dad was… somewhere else. The System hadn't existed yet. Only the silence had.
He closed the door.
Another opened without asking.
—the rooftop. First year of high school. The wind. A text from Rei: "Hey, lunch?"
Jay had almost ignored it. That small decision changed everything.
"Jay," came a voice behind him.
He turned.
Rei stood at the other end of the corridor—wearing his real-world clothes, blinking in confusion.
Jay stepped back. "You're not real."
Rei shrugged. "Neither are you."
The world flickered.
