Once upon a time — though not too far from now — there was a world neatly divided in two.
By day, it was peaceful. The sun shone kindly upon villages and cities alike, and people busied themselves with the ordinary: morning bells, echoing footsteps, the rustle of paper and the hum of voices. It was a world of patterns and predictability, of stories written on calendars and marked by clocks.
But when night fell, the world forgot its rules.
The stars blinked open like watchful eyes, and the land changed. Quiet forests breathed with secrets. Empty streets whispered names no one remembered speaking. And from the corners where shadow clung — things moved.
Things that did not belong to the sun.
They came in many shapes. Some were clothed in wind and mist, others in roots and bone. They crept, they crawled, they called. Not loud, not harsh — but soft enough to be heard only by those who should not have listened.
But for every strange thing born of the dark, there were those who stood against them. Not with swords or banners. Not with crowns or spells.
They wore no armor. They carried no torches. They lived in silence — hidden in the very rhythm of the world. Where one looked for kings, they found only commoners. Where one sought warriors, they found only workers.
But make no mistake: they were there.
They had always been there.
And when the fourth bell rang at the end of dusk, they vanished into the air — poof! — just like fog at sunrise.
The story paused.
An old voice, soft with age and memory, floated through the dim room.
"...and that's where they disappeared. Right between the stars and the rooftops."
A child peeked out from under the covers, wide-eyed and silent. "Grandpa… is that a real story?"
The old man smiled, eyes crinkling. "The real ones are the ones that never stop being told."
"But how come no one ever sees them?"
"Because you have to wait," the grandfather said, brushing a strand of hair from the boy's brow. "You have to wait until you're ready."
"How long?"
The old man leaned back, gaze rising to the ceiling — as if he could see through it to the stars beyond.
"A few more years," he said. "Maybe then... you'll start to remember."
Years Later
The train station yawned into the early morning. Concrete pillars stretched into the gray-blue sky, streaked with graffiti and old posters peeled by time. The platform was half-asleep — pigeons fluttered overhead, the buzz of flickering lamps echoing in the fog.
Jack Monroe stood alone at the edge.
Black hair hung messily across his forehead, the kind of dishevelment that came from sleeping in snatches and living in secondhand clothes. His glasses, slightly bent at one arm, sat crooked on his nose. A worn-out messenger bag — canvas brown, edges fraying — rested against his hip. It had once belonged to his grandfather. Now, it held his last printed résumé and a cheap thermos of lukewarm coffee.
He glanced at the clock. 6:12 a.m.
He had one shot at this interview — a maybe-position at an office he barely remembered applying for. But when rent's due and luck's dry, maybes are more than enough.
The train bell rang in the distance. One long note. Mournful.
Jack rubbed his tired eyes and pulled his coat tighter. Cold crept into his sleeves. Shoes a little too tight. Wallet a little too light. But he stood there, straight and still, determined.
A gust of wind whispered down the track.
Ding.
The bell sounded again — sharper this time. Closer.
The train pulled in with a groan of steel and breath of smoke. The doors hissed open. Jack hesitated for just a second, then stepped inside.
The car was packed. Not a single open seat.
Figures swayed in silence — some dozing, others scrolling through phones with blank expressions. The windows reflected pale faces, flickering with tunnel lights.
Jack didn't complain.
He grabbed the cold metal bar above and leaned slightly with the motion as the train lurched forward.
As he stood there, eyes half-lidded behind scratched lenses, something flickered past the window — just for a heartbeat. A shape in the dark.
He blinked. Gone.
Just a trick of the light.
Or maybe… something more.
And so, the day began — with his bag, weight in his chest, and no idea that the story his grandfather told him… was already unfolding.
The train screeched as it pulled into the city center.
Jack Monroe stepped off the car, head lowered slightly, shoulders hunched under the weight of his grandfather's old bag. The morning crowd surged around him in all directions — business suits brushing past, coffee cups sloshing, impatient footsteps echoing across the platform.
He tried to move through them politely, but every few seconds someone bumped him. A briefcase jabbed his side. A rolling suitcase nearly crushed his foot.
"Sorry—" he mumbled.
No one looked back.
By the time he reached the exit, the crowd had already pulled ahead, and he spilled out onto the street like a paper swept into the wind.
The air outside was sharp with exhaust and early traffic. Jack adjusted his glasses, only to have them slide back down again, and glanced around for a taxi.
Perfect. All taken.
Every cab on the curb already had someone climbing in. One by one, yellow cars vanished into the rush of morning noise.
Jack sighed.
"…Of course. Bad day's gotta start with no ride."
He stood there for a moment, debating if he should run or just give up. Then he took off on foot — fast, if a bit awkward, weaving between pedestrians as he clutched his bag tight. The strap kept slipping off his shoulder.
One by one, he hit every building he'd written down the night before.
Midline Logistics. Greenstone Media. TMC. Lander & Grey. BeaconTech.
Receptionists smiled flatly. Interviewers frowned politely. One asked if he had the wrong appointment. Another didn't even bother to shake his hand.
A couple offices didn't have records of his application. One told him they'd "keep his resume on file."
And then came the last one. An office with polished marble floors and soft jazz playing in the background. The owner, dressed like he was about to give a TED talk, skimmed Jack's resume for less than ten seconds.
"We're looking for someone with more... polish," he said, not even unkindly. "But best of luck out there."
Jack nodded, numb. "Thanks."
By late afternoon, the sun was bruised and low. Jack stepped out of the final building with a blank expression, pulled out the wrinkled paper in his pocket — a list of every office he'd planned to visit — and crossed out the last name. The ink dragged awkwardly; the pen was nearly dead.
He stared at the paper.
Every name now had a line through it.
Every door, closed.
He folded it, slowly, shoved it into his bag, and let his feet carry him down the sidewalk. His stomach growled — not politely, but violently. He hadn't eaten since yesterday.
Jack stopped by a vending machine, patting his coat pocket.
His wallet: nearly empty.
Inside was a single worn $10 bill. His last.
"Right," he muttered. "Spent most of it on the train. That's smart. Real smart."
He slid the wallet back in and kept walking until he found an old metal bench at a bus stop — half-covered in chipped paint and faded graffiti. With a quiet groan, he sat down and leaned back, letting his bag drop beside him.
The city moved without him. Horns blared. Someone yelled on a phone across the street. Buses came and went. People rushed past like rivers around a stone.
He didn't move.
Jack tilted his head back and stared up at the pale clouds drifting overhead.
"…So," he said quietly to no one. "What the hell am I supposed to do now?"
His breath hung in the air for a moment. Cold. Unanswered.
But something was coming.
He just didn't know it yet.