To Dream in a Dying World

The man walked through the streets of the memory, his footsteps echoing against the cobblestone paths. The city, once a ruin of desolate silence and shifting shadows, was now whole—alive, yet empty in a way that unsettled him. Towers of smooth, silver stone loomed over him, their spires stretching into the swirling sky, adorned with symbols he did not recognize. The roads, broad and clean, were filled with people, that were not truly there

The faceless figures moved through the streets in an unnatural rhythm, their gestures mechanical, their conversations reduced to an unintelligible hum. They did not acknowledge his presence, did not react to him as he passed between them. They were echoes—shadows of a life that no longer existed.

Yet, something about them felt *real*. The city breathed with a lost history, its people trapped in a memory that did not fade. A man in a long coat stood at a fruit stand, exchanging currency that shimmered like liquid metal. A woman walked past him, leading a child by the hand. A group of figures gathered beneath an archway, their heads inclined as if discussing something of importance.

Yet, the man couldn't see theirfaces. Nor hear their voices.

He pressed forward, his gaze flickering between the figures and the towering structures around him. The city was grand beyond anything he had ever seen—an architecture that was both ancient and impossibly advanced. Bridges arched over canals filled with dark, still water. Carved runes adorned the walls of buildings, glowing faintly, pulsing with life. Statues lined the roads, depicting figures robed in flowing garments, their hands raised as if in prayer or warning.

His gaze turned toward the horizon, where the blackened tower loomed. Even here, within the city's preserved memory, it remained a twisted aberration—its surface unnatural, warping in and out of focus like a smudge on reality itself.

As he walked, he began to notice the fractures.

The figures that filled the streets occasionally flickered, their forms distorting for a brief moment before snapping back into place. The hum of their voices wavered, sometimes rising into an unbearable screech before returning to a quiet drone. The figures simply ignored the man as they walked. They seemed to be trapped in the past .

He gripped the dagger tighter.

He passed beneath a massive stone arch, its inscriptions weathered yet pulsing faintly. He traced the carvings with his free hand, feeling a deep, hollow sorrow emanate from them. The symbols told a story—one he could not read, but could *feel*.

A story of a city that had fallen.

The man whirled around, but the street was unchanged. The faceless figures still moved, unaffected. The buildings still loomed, the runes still pulsed.

His heart pounded. He turned back to the road ahead and kept walking, his pace quickening. The presence of the tower weighed on him now, its impossible form pressing against the edges of his mind. It did not belong in this memory. It was something else.

The closer he got, the more the memory distorted. Buildings began to shift, their surfaces warping like melting wax. The faceless figures twitched, some bending at unnatural angles, their limbs snapping like marionettes with tangled strings. The hum of voices cracked and splintered.

The air grew heavy. The city was unraveling.

He had to reach the tower before the memory collapsed entirely.

With a steadying breath, he pressed forward, his eyes locked on the distant spire.