Klein left the building at six twenty-three.
He knew the time without checking. The certainty followed him like a second shadow—except there were no shadows to speak of.
The street outside was already awake.
Carriages rolled past at steady intervals, their wheels striking the stone road with crisp, identical sounds. Shopkeepers lifted shutters in unison, metal scraping against metal in a rhythm that felt rehearsed.
Pedestrians walked with purpose, neither hurried nor idle, as if each step had been decided in advance.
Klein adjusted his coat and joined the flow.
The morning air was cool and clear. Too clear. He could smell bread from a bakery two streets away, iron from a smithy, ink from a nearby print shop.
Each scent was distinct, isolated, and complete, refusing to blend with the others.
He frowned slightly.
My senses are sharper than they should be.
A pair of men passed him, their conversation drifting unguarded into his ears.
"I regret marrying her," one said casually.
"I know," the other replied. "I resent my brother for the same reason."
They did not lower their voices. They did not hesitate. The words fell between them like coins placed on a table—solid, unambiguous, final.
Klein slowed his steps.
As the first man finished speaking, a faint ripple passed through the air. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but Klein felt it clearly, brushing against his temples like a pressure change before a storm.
The speaker winced.
Only for a moment.
Then he straightened, his expression emptying slightly, as if something small but essential had been removed.
Klein's breathing grew shallow.
Every statement… has weight, he realized.
And the world responds.
He continued walking, more cautiously now.
At the corner of the street, a beggar sat against the wall. His clothes were threadbare, his beard tangled, his eyes dull with exhaustion. He held out a trembling hand, palm up, waiting.
Klein hesitated.
In the past—whenever that was—he would have reached into his pocket without thinking. The impulse rose instinctively, but he stopped himself.
Words mattered here.
Intent mattered less.
He met the beggar's gaze.
"I can't help you," Klein said.
The pressure flickered.
The beggar's shoulders sagged, not in disappointment, but in resignation. He withdrew his hand and looked away.
Nothing else happened.
Klein exhaled quietly.
Negation is lighter than judgment, he noted.
He turned to leave..
"I hope you die," said a woman nearby, her tone flat.
Klein spun around.
The woman stood a few steps away, arguing with a man whose face was flushed with anger. She did not shout. She did not curse. She had spoken the sentence calmly, as if stating the weather.
The man staggered.
He clutched his chest, eyes wide with confusion rather than pain, and collapsed onto the street.
Silence fell.
Not the absence of sound—carriages still rolled, shutters still rose—but a silence of attention. Every head turned. Every gaze fixed on the fallen man, then shifted to the woman.
She stared at her hands.
"I… didn't mean.." she began.
The pressure surged violently.
Her mouth snapped shut as if struck. She gasped, clutching her throat, eyes filling with terror as something unseen pressed down on her.
Klein felt it too, heavy and suffocating, as though the street itself had leaned inward.
The woman fell to her knees, choking on words she could no longer speak.
Then, just as suddenly, the pressure lifted.
The man on the ground did not move.
The woman remained kneeling, shaking, mute.
No one screamed.
No one panicked.
After a few seconds, two constables approached, their expressions grim but unsurprised. One checked the man's pulse. The other guided the woman to her feet without a word.
Life resumed.
Klein stood frozen among the pedestrians, his heart pounding.
So that's how it works, he thought.
Intent is irrelevant.
Meaning is irrelevant.
Only what is said matters.
As he resumed walking, more carefully than before, Klein felt a growing certainty settle in his chest.
This world did not hide danger.
It waited for you to speak it into existence.
And for the first time since waking, Klein felt a genuine, creeping fear.
Not of death.
But of saying the wrong thing.