EPISODE 1 — THE SCROLL IN MY HEAD
[Library, 9:42 PM]
The 5th floor was silent except for the hum of old fluorescent lights. Everybody else left hours ago. I sat alone with a pile of books higher than my head. Medical encyclopedias, forgotten mythology, quantum theory… trash, all of it.
None of these explain why two versions of me are chained to a tower in a place where the stars move like living eyes.
I closed another book. My fingers tingled.
Whenever the memory effect triggers, I feel like electricity crawls under my skin. It's useful—but also disgusting. Like my brain is chewing books alive.
A voice echoed from the corner:
> "You're here again, kid?"
I didn't turn. Only one person talks to me this late.
Old Zhang, night librarian. Thick glasses, cheap tea, looks like he's been printed out of a 1970s photograph. He never treats me like a child, which is why I don't avoid him.
"I already told you," I answered without looking up, "I'm not a kid."
He snorted.
> "Your face says five. Your eyes say fifty."
He wasn't wrong. I feel older than I should. Not wise—just exhausted.
He walked closer and saw the pile of books.
> "Psychology tonight?"
"Neurology," I corrected.
He stared at the open page: "Abnormal Cranial Phenomena."
He hesitated.
> "Tian… if you feel something wrong with your head, see a doctor. Don't try to cure yourself with books."
I wanted to laugh. Doctors scanned me ten times over the years. X-rays, MRIs, genetic tests—zero results. No tumors, no mutations. Just… frozen biology.
Zhang sat across from me, rubbing his tea mug.
> "Why are you pushing so hard?"
I met his eyes. I didn't bother lying.
"Because every night when I close my eyes, I see myself chained to a tower in a world that doesn't exist."
Zhang's expression froze.
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
He didn't know what to say—nobody ever does.
I continued:
"And yesterday… for the first time… the left one, the one with dark smoke, opened his eyes and looked at me."
That part I didn't plan to say out loud. But it slipped out.
Zhang inhaled sharply.
> "What do you mean he looked at you?"
"He smiled," I whispered.
The type of smile that understands you better than you understand yourself.
---
The Nightmares
I didn't sleep.
Again.
I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling, lights off, hoping the darkness would be empty tonight.
It wasn't.
The dream came instantly, like someone yanked my consciousness through a window.
A sky too close, like a ceiling pressing down on the world. Clouds made of ash. A black tower rising like a spine of a dead god. Chains thicker than pillars, glowing symbols running through them like veins.
And two boys.
White hair.
White skin.
Me. Twice.
They sat back-to-back.
Necks locked by a collar that connected through iron links carved with patterns I couldn't decode.
From one boy's mouth, light smoked upward—like burning incense made of souls.
From the other, darkness bled out, dripping like the ink of a collapsed star.
Their eyes were closed.
But this time, the dark one opened his eyes again.
No pupils.
Just emptiness.
Infinite depth.
He spoke without opening his mouth.
> "Three months. Why won't you accept it?"
The tower trembled. Chains groaned.
My body in the dream felt weightless, like I wasn't standing—I was being observed.
> "You think you're searching… but you're running."
I backed away, even though I had no legs in the dream.
There was no ground. No air. Just existence without physics.
> "You read your little books. You chase your human science."
"But your answer isn't in that world."
My teeth clenched.
"Who are you?"
This time the light twin opened his eyes too.
He looked at me with sadness, not familiarity.
The two boys spoke together:
> "You are."
My chest exploded with pain—like something stretched inside me, a rope pulled from two directions. I screamed—
—and woke up on the floor.
Sweat soaked my shirt. My heartbeat hammered like metal on stone.
Time on my phone:
03:09 AM.
---
The Scroll Reacts
Something else happened.
For three months, the scroll in my mind felt like a cold object—static, silent, just existing.
Tonight, it moved.
Not physically. More like… unfolded.
Behind my eyelids, even while awake, I saw one of the patterns—
a spiral of characters I've never seen.
Not Chinese.
Not any script from human languages.
Like mathematical symbols fused with calligraphy, with strokes that bend reality instead of paper.
My memory tried to lock onto it.
Normally, I can absorb anything. Books, lectures, diagrams. Perfect retention.
But this script—
my mind slipped off it, like trying to hold smoke.
The pain in my chest pulsed again.
Something whispered:
> "Not yet."
Then silence.
---
Losing Control
I spent the morning staring at the bathroom mirror.
White hair reflecting artificial light.
Face smooth, soft, childlike.
But eyes… eyes of someone who has watched two versions of himself die thousands of imaginary deaths.
My hands were shaking.
Eight years of research.
Thousands of books.
All knowledge, zero answers.
What is the point of memorizing the entire national library if none of it belongs to the world you're dreaming of?
Physics means nothing if space bends differently.
Biology means nothing if life is made from smoke.
History means nothing if there are civilizations older than stars.
I finally asked myself a question I've avoided:
What if the scroll isn't from Earth?
What if I'm not from Earth?
It sounds insane when written.
But so does living 13 years without aging.
My parents refuse to talk about my birth.
They change the subject.
Every. Time.
When I was younger, I thought they were hiding some disease or trauma.
Now I'm not sure it was anything medical.