To Dream in a Dying World

The man moved through the ruins, the dagger weighing heavy at his side. The city was endless, a sprawl of broken stone and warped streets. He could no longer tell if he was walking in circles or if the city itself was shifting around him, rearranging itself whenever he looked away.

The silence was oppressive. Not the silence of emptiness, but something more deliberate—a hush held in reverence, like the city was waiting for something. 

As he moved forward, he noticed a change. The deeper he went, the more intact the ruins became. Crumbling towers stood straighter, broken archways regained their curves. The decay lessened, as though time itself unraveled in reverse the closer he got to the city's heart.

And then there were the figures.

At first, he thought they were statues. In the distance they seemed like shadowed forms hunched against the walls, standing in alleys, crouching in doorways. But they were wrong. Too detailed. Too lifelike. Their bodies were frozen in various poses—some reaching out, others shielding their faces, a few curled into themselves as if bracing for something unseen. Their faces were twisted in expressions of fear, grief, or something worse.

He approached one, hesitant. Its skin—if it *was* skin—was dry and cracked, flaking like stone. The eyes were hollow, empty sockets staring at nothing. He reached out, brushing his fingers against its arm.

A whisper slithered through his mind.

*Remember us.*

He recoiled, breath sharp, heart hammering. The whisper was gone as quickly as it came, but he had felt something. Not words, but a presence. A memory.

He turned his head. More figures lined the streets now. They had been there all along, hidden by the city's twisting design.

The man exhaled and pressed on. The dagger at his side pulsed faintly, its glow almost imperceptible. It was leading him somewhere.

Ahead, a wide stairway descended underground. Unlike the ruins above, it was untouched by time—pristine stone, unbroken, steps leading into darkness. He hesitated at the top, listening. No wind. No sound. Only the weight of something unseen, pressing against his chest.

He stepped forward.

As he descended, the silence deepened, swallowing the faint echoes of his footsteps. The air grew warmer, thick with something like breath. The walls closed in, narrowing slightly. The symbols returned, but now they glowed softly, pulsing like veins beneath the stone.

At the bottom of the stairs, a vast chamber stretched before him. The ceiling was high, vaulted, held up by pillars that curved unnaturally, almost organic in shape. And at the center of the room stood a monolith.

It was tall, towering over him, its surface the same blackened stone as the dagger. It pulsed faintly with the same white glow. He approached, drawn by something beyond his understanding. As he reached out, a voice whispered—not from the monolith, but from within his own mind.

*You are not the first.*

He froze. The words were different from the whispers before. They did not plead. They did not warn.

It was as if they knew him.

His fingers brushed the surface, and a vision consumed him.

A city, whole and thriving. Towers unbroken, streets filled with people—until *something* came. A shadow, a presence that slithered into their minds, bending their will. The people changed. Their bodies twisted. And then, the silence came.

The city hadn't just fallen. It had changed.

The vision snapped away. The man staggered back, breath ragged. He turned, ready to flee—but the stairway was gone.

The chamber had changed. The monolith pulsed brighter, and the figures—the ones from the streets—stood at the edges of the room now, watching. They had moved.

Then, a sound.

A low, shuddering breath.

Not from the figures. Not from the monolith.

From something else.

Something waking up.