Arthur stumbled into his apartment, dragging his feet like he'd been walking for years instead of hours. The moment the door closed behind him, he dropped his bag on the floor with a soft thud and leaned his forehead against the wall.
"Ugh… why is everything so loud…" he muttered.
The whispers.
The tiny answers.
The strange voice that kept poking at his brain every time someone asked him something.
He wasn't sure if he was going crazy or if something else was happening, but whatever it was… it was exhausting.
He kicked off his shoes, wandered into the kitchen, saw the empty fridge, and closed it immediately.
"Nope. Not dealing with that today."
He collapsed on his bed, face buried in his pillow, letting out a long groan that sounded way too dramatic.
For a moment, he stared at the ceiling in silence.
And just like that… the exhaustion melted into memories.
Memories he didn't summon — but that crawled out of his chest anyway, piece by piece.
---
The Life Before Everything Fell Apart
He used to wake up to sunlight slipping through linen curtains. His mom humming in the kitchen — off-key, but that made it better. His father laughing at some old manga he reread for the fifth time, always insisting the jokes were "still elite."
Breakfast always smelled like cinnamon. Not because his mother liked it — she didn't. But because he loved it, and she said, "If my son likes cinnamon, then this house will smell like it forever."
Arthur could almost smell it again.
He remembered how he'd run down the hallway, socks sliding on the wooden floor, nearly falling every morning. His dad always joked:
"Careful! If you break your neck, your mother will kill both of us."
They used to take weekend walks. Sometimes to the lake. Sometimes to the old bookstore that smelled like dust and secrets. His father always bought him a book even when money was tight.
And his mom… she'd ruffle his hair every time he complained.
"You're too cute to be sad," she'd say.
He always pretended to hate it, but he loved it.
Dinner time was loud. They ate together. They talked together. They laughed together.
Life wasn't perfect, but it was theirs.
Warm.
Bright.
Safe.
He remembered movie nights — all three of them squeezed on one couch, his dad snoring before the movie even hit the ten-minute mark, and his mom pretending not to be annoyed.
He remembered hugs. Real hugs. The kind that wrapped around your ribs and told your heart: you're not alone.
And he remembered the last words he said to them that night:
"Just go without me… I wanna finish this episode."
He didn't know those words would stay in his head forever.
He didn't know that one choice — one tiny, selfish, innocent choice — would change everything.
His chest tightened.
His eyes burned.
His breath trembled.
He whispered into the quiet apartment, voice softer than the air:
"I miss u both…"
---
But after a long moment, he inhaled deeply and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
"No," he whispered. "Stop. You already promised yourself, remember?"
He sat up slowly, staring at the faint reflection in the window — messy blond hair, tired blue eyes, cheeks still soft with a boyish roundness he couldn't escape.
He slapped both cheeks lightly.
"Come on Arthur… don't break now."
He swallowed hard.
"Live the best life possible… so they'll be proud."
He repeated the words quietly, like they were a small prayer.
Then, before turning off the light, he looked toward the blank wall above his bed — a wall that had slowly become a place he spoke to when the silence felt too heavy.
And with a tiny smile, tired but sincere, he whispered:
"Mom, Dad… watch me."
He closed his eyes.
And sleep pulled him under like a tide.
---
Arthur opened his eyes.
But he wasn't in his room.
He stood in front of a door — tall, wooden, a strange glowing symbol carved into the center. He didn't recognize it, but it felt familiar in the same way déjà vu does: confusing and uncomfortable.
He reached out.
The handle was cold.
He pushed.
The door creaked open.
And darkness swallowed him whole.
It wasn't just dark — it was alive.
A deep, endless black that felt like it could touch him. Like it could breathe. Like it could wrap around his heart if he wasn't careful.
"W-where am I…?"
His voice echoed.
He took a shaky step forward. Then another. His shoes clicked against a floor he couldn't see.
Then—
Far ahead, almost too far to trust—
There was a light.
A small, lonely, trembling light.
And strangely… it felt like hope.
Without thinking, Arthur started walking toward it.
Then jogging.
Then running.
"Wait—! Don't disappear!" he shouted, voice cracking slightly.
His footsteps echoed behind him, stretching through the endless emptiness.
The light didn't get bigger, but it stayed where it was — waiting.
Calling.
And in the darkness around him, something began to shift.
Whispers.
Shadows.
Shapes moving just at the edge of his vision.
"Nope nope nope— I am NOT dealing with horror movie stuff—"
He ran faster.
The light grew clearer, brighter, warmer.
He reached out his hand, breathing hard, his chest tight with something between fear and desperate hope.
Almost…
Almost…
Just a little more—
He stretched his arm—
And then everything exploded.
---
Arthur woke up with a gasp.
His heart hammered. His breath stuttered. His eyes darted around the room — his room — sunlight barely peeking through the curtains.
He was lying flat on his back, chest rising and falling rapidly.
His right arm was raised toward the ceiling, fingers still stretched like they were reaching for something that wasn't there.
And then—
A voice.
Clear. Low. Echoing inside him but not from him.
"Welcome, Arthur Lindström."
His blood turned to ice.
His eyes widened.
His breath froze.
His jaw dropped.
"That… that's not… that wasn't me…"
The voice didn't repeat itself.
But the room felt different now.
Like something else had entered it.
Like something had finally awakened.
Arthur lowered his trembling hand to his chest and whispered:
"…What's happening to me?"
And in the silence that followed, one thing was certain:
This was only the beginning.