The news played softly on the television, voices echoing through the empty room.
"A family is celebrating tonight after their son returned—five years after he mysteriously disappeared. Authorities are questioning him, hoping to learn what happened during that time," said the first anchor.
"It's incredible," the second added. "If you're just tuning in, yes—you remember correctly. That incident five years ago affected thirty percent of the global population. People vanished without a trace. And now… they're coming back."
The anchors continued talking, their words blurring into meaningless chatter.
Click.
The screen went black as I turned off the TV and tossed the remote onto the couch.
I turned eighteen last month. I bought my own cake, ate it alone, and didn't even finish it.
It's been two years since I came back.
Yeah. I was one of them—one of the people who disappeared five years ago. But when I returned, there was no celebration. No warm embrace. No "thank God you're home." Just paperwork, a caseworker, and an urn.
My mother's ashes.
She died while I was gone. They said it was peaceful. I never got the full story. My father died when I was eight, so she was all I had left. When I returned, there was no one waiting for me.
They say it's healthy to cry, that it helps.
I think I cried everything I had in that other world. Or maybe I left those tears behind with the version of me who still hoped things would go back to normal.
People like to say we're strong—those of us who survived whatever happened. I fought in that world. I killed monsters, cleared dungeons, and survived things most people couldn't imagine. I even saved lives. Over there, people looked at me like I mattered.
But here? None of that means anything.
Have you ever come back from the dead and realize no one noticed?
I have.
I don't talk about where we went. Not because I'm hiding anything, but because no one really wants the truth. They want a feel-good story. They want to believe we were somewhere safe. That we found a way to endure, and now everything is fine.
But it wasn't like that.
It was cold. Brutal. We starved. We bled. We lost people and moved on because we had to. Some of us came back stronger. Some came back broken. Some didn't come back at all.
Me? I came back quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet. The kind that settles in your bones and tells you something is wrong.
And lately, that quiet is everywhere.
At night, I hear a voice—not loud, but always close. A whisper brushing against my ear:
"Get ready."
I don't know what's coming. But I know one thing for sure:
That world didn't let us go.
It sent us back for a reason.