The One Who Waits

The fall didn’t feel like falling.

It felt like being forgotten.

There was no sky. No ground. Only a silence that pressed against Lucen’s chest like drowning — thick and endless, until he forgot what breathing even was. His thoughts scattered like dust. His heartbeat was a memory.

And then — light.

A crack in the dark. Thin as thread. Soft as moonlight.

Lucen landed on something that wasn’t stone or earth — just stillness. The nothing beneath his feet accepted him, and he stood up slowly, unsteady, as if the world had been stitched back together only moments ago.

He was in the courtyard again.

But it wasn’t the same.

Everything shimmered faintly, like a memory trying to hold shape. The tree with silver leaves looked older. Tired. The sky above wasn’t red anymore — it was a bruised purple, streaked with long, black clouds that didn’t move.

Lucen blinked.

He was alone.

The girl wasn’t here.

Neither were the lanterns. Or the garden. Or the glowing stone platform that had pulsed with his thoughts. It was as if the entire dream had reset — but it didn’t forget.

He took a step forward and felt something shift beneath him.

The air was thicker. Alive.

Watching.

A faint echo followed his movement, like someone had stepped behind him — but when he turned, no one was there.

He was just about to call out when he heard the voice.

“Lucen.”

He spun around.

The silver-haired girl stood by the base of the tree, silent as snowfall. She hadn’t been there a moment ago. Her eyes found his like she’d never stopped looking.

But this time, she didn’t look calm.

She looked afraid.

“You’re here,” he said, relieved. “I thought—”

“You shouldn’t be,” she cut in.

Lucen flinched. “What?”

“You weren’t supposed to return so soon. Not after what happened.”

Lucen stepped closer. “What was that? The ripple… the collapse… that voice—”

Her expression darkened. “Something noticed you.”

Lucen nodded slowly. “You said that before. That I wasn’t supposed to awaken yet.”

She turned away, her voice quieter now. “This world isn’t just dream. It’s memory. Intention. Echoes. And doors.”

“Doors to what?”

“To deeper layers. Older things. Things that shouldn’t be touched.”

Lucen felt a chill creep up his spine. “But I touched it. The stone. I changed the sky. I didn’t mean to, but I did.”

“And that woke something up,” she said.

“Something… bad?”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she walked to the tree and touched its bark.

The silver leaves above her rustled faintly, though there was no wind.

“This place,” she said, “it remembers all who’ve walked it. The dreamwalkers. The broken. The forgotten.”

“You keep saying that,” Lucen said. “Dreamwalker. What does that mean?”

She looked over her shoulder. Her eyes weren’t just sad — they were old. Not in years, but in the weight they carried. “It means you’ve crossed the Veil too many times. Enough that it no longer lets you go.”

Lucen’s throat tightened. “So I’m stuck?”

“Not yet.” She walked toward him, slowly. “But you’re marked now. It saw you. It won’t forget.”

Lucen tried to steady his breathing. “What is it? The thing that said ‘found you’?”

She looked past him, toward the darkened hallways of the strange dream-school. The building loomed like a shadow in mist, windows black as ink. Doors slightly open.

“It’s not a thing,” she said. “It’s a memory that became hunger. A watcher who was once a walker. Something that waited too long and fell through everything.”

He shivered. “Does it have a name?”

“No one names it anymore. It’s only known as…”

She hesitated.

“…the One Who Waits.”

Lucen swallowed.

It wasn’t just a title. It was a weight. A truth older than words. The moment she spoke it, the courtyard dimmed slightly. The air shuddered.

“How do I stop it from… coming for me?”

“You can’t.” Her voice didn’t change. “You can only run. Or learn fast enough to face it.”

“Learn what?”

She met his eyes. “Magic. Real magic. Not just shaping sky with emotion. But spells. Anchors. Wards. Bonds.”

Lucen’s breath caught. “You can teach me?”

“I can try. But the Veil is unstable now. You woke up a part of it no one touches.” She stepped closer. “From now on, every time you return, it will feel different. You’ve opened something that doesn’t close.”

Lucen clenched his hands. “Then help me survive it.”

She paused for a moment. Then nodded.

“Come.”

She led him down a corridor he hadn’t noticed before — a long, overgrown hallway of broken stone, covered in ivy and whispering lights. The floor shifted under his feet, not quite solid. Paintings lined the walls, blurred with age. Some of them moved when he wasn’t looking directly.

They walked in silence for what felt like minutes. Or hours.

At last, they stopped before a broken archway.

Beyond it was a wide room made of cracked white stone. Floating orbs drifted through the air, casting soft blue light on the faded murals that spiraled along the dome above.

In the center: a pedestal.

Upon it: a thin, stone tablet etched with runes that shimmered faintly, as if lit from within.

She turned to him. “This is what remains of the First Memory. Where dreamwalkers used to be named.”

Lucen stepped closer. “What is this place?”

“The Origin. The last sanctuary.”

He placed a hand on the stone tablet.

It was warm.

The runes pulsed beneath his skin.

Suddenly, words formed in his mind — not spoken, not heard. Just known:

> “To remember is to shape. To shape is to awaken. But all awakening demands a price.”

He pulled his hand back, breath sharp. “What does it want from me?”

She stared at him. “Your choice.”

The lights flickered.

A low hum began — faint, like the sound of bones vibrating.

Lucen looked up.

The murals above them were changing. Slowly. Shifting.

One showed a figure standing before a tree with silver leaves.

Another: the same figure walking through flames that didn’t burn.

And the third—

A figure kneeling before a massive shadow, its mouth open wide, swallowing stars.

Lucen stepped back. “That’s me.”

She nodded. “Or one version of you.”

He turned. “So I can still change the future?”

“Maybe. But if you keep going, you must be ready to leave something behind.”

Lucen shook his head. “Leave what?”

But the room began to tremble.

The blue lights dimmed. The stone tablet cracked.

From the corridor behind them, a noise echoed.

Not a voice.

Not a breath.

A dragging sound. Slow. Rhythmic.

Like something ancient pulling itself across the edge of time.

The girl froze. “It followed you.”

Lucen turned toward the corridor. “The One Who Waits?”

“No.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Its echo. But it can still touch you.”

Lucen reached for her hand. “Then we run.”

“No,” she said, staring at the archway. “We stand.”

And then it entered the room.

A figure — tall, faceless, robed in shadows that clung to it like smoke. Its head tilted as if studying them. No eyes. No features.

Only the hollow silence where a soul should have been.

The girl raised her hand — light pulsed from her palm.

The shadow recoiled slightly, hissing without sound.

Lucen felt a warmth in his chest, familiar now — the same pulse from before.

Without thinking, he stepped forward, hand raised.

A flicker of golden light sparked from his fingertips.

The shadow paused.

Then lunged.

The girl shouted a word — not English, not dream-language — and a shield of silver light flashed between them.

The shadow struck it — and vanished like smoke against wind.

Silence returned.

Lucen collapsed to his knees.

The girl knelt beside him. “You did it.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You reached back. That’s enough.”

He looked at his hand, still faintly glowing.

“What was that thing really?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she looked toward the far end of the room — where a new door had appeared.

Unmarked. Half-open.

Waiting.

> “He’s here,” she said softly. “The one who waits for you. He’s always been here.”

Lucen stood slowly.

His voice trembled. “And if I open that door?”

She didn’t look at him.

> “Then you remember everything.”

> “But?”

> “But once you do, you can’t go back.”

Lucen stared at the door.

And the door stared back.

---

BY ANURAG

Lucen is no longer just dreaming — he’s remembering. But memory in the Veil is magic, and magic always leaves marks.

What waits beyond that door?

And what version of Lucen will step through it?

Next: Chapter 5 – The Spell Between Worlds