THE THREAD BETWEEN WORLDs

The wind didn’t blow that night.It stilled.Like even the air was holding its breath.
Lucen lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, bathed in moonlight. The fan was off. The window shut. And yet, something moved — slowly, deliberately.
Not wind. Not sound. Just… presence.
He blinked.
Something shimmered above him.Not light. Not shadow. Something in between.Like a thread pulled loose from the world.
Then another.Then five.
They spun through the air like silver dust caught in sunlight — too bright, too delicate to belong here.
Lucen sat up, breath tight in his throat.The threads spiraled, glowing, pulsing. Beating to a rhythm that wasn’t his. One by one, they drifted downward — toward him.
And then she appeared.At the edge of his bed.
Silent. Silver-haired. Still.
Her white cloak didn’t flutter, but the threads bowed toward her like grass in wind. Her eyes found his — and it felt like the room had folded to make space for her.
“You pulled something through,” she said softly.
Lucen stared. “How are you here?”
“I followed the thread.”
Her voice wasn’t a whisper, but it clung close — like words meant only for him.
“You left the Veil too quickly,” she said. “It couldn’t seal behind you.”
Lucen glanced around. “This is still… the real world?”
She nodded once.
“But it’s unraveling.”

---
They stood side by side at the window.Outside, the world was still. Yet Lucen felt it — the wrongness. Not in what he saw. But in what he couldn’t name.
The curtain stirred.Not from wind.From breath.
She lifted her hand. A glowing thread curled into her fingers like a ribbon drawn to her.
“Dream and waking,” she murmured, “are not separate. Only distant.”
Lucen frowned. “So… I brought this with me?”
“You brought more than this.”
Her eyes shimmered. “You brought attention.”
Lucen froze. “You mean… that thing that said—”
> Found you.


The words still echoed in his skull like a stain.
She didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. Just watched him.Then: “You need to return. Not to visit. To repair.”
Lucen’s chest tightened. “And if I don’t?”
Her eyes darkened. And for the first time — he saw fear.
“Then the world begins to forget which side it belongs to.”

---
They stood in the center of his room.The air thickened. Moonlight dimmed.
Lucen whispered, “You said you could help me. Teach me.”
She stepped forward, took his hand, and placed her palm over his chest.
“Close your eyes.”
He obeyed.
“Now… speak this.”
She whispered a word that felt older than silence itself.Lucen hesitated. Then repeated it.
> “Lumae… verin.”


The world didn’t shatter.It folded.
The floor vanished. The light drained.And he fell.

---
It wasn’t falling. It was being forgotten.
No sky. No ground. Just silence pressing in — heavy, endless. His thoughts scattered. His heartbeat disappeared.
And then — light.
A crack in the dark. Thin. Silver. Soft.
Lucen landed. Not on stone. Not on ground. Just… stillness.
He stood, legs shaking.The world around him stitched itself together — as if remembering how.
He was in the courtyard again.
But different.

---
Everything shimmered faintly, like a dream trying to recall itself.The silver-leaved tree looked older. The sky wasn’t red anymore — it was deep violet, bruised with unmoving black clouds.
Lucen blinked. Alone.No girl. No lanterns. No platform.The dream hadn’t reset.It had mutated.
He stepped forward.
The air felt thick. Aware.
Behind him — a soft echo. Like someone stepping where he’d stepped.
He turned.No one.
And then—
> “Lucen.”



---
He spun.
She stood at the tree’s base, silent as snowfall.
She hadn’t been there before.
Her gaze met his, calm but heavy. Like she’d never stopped watching.
“You’re here,” he said. “I thought—”
“You shouldn’t be,” she cut in.
Lucen frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You returned too soon. After what happened…”
“What did happen? That ripple? That collapse? The voice—”
Her voice dropped. “Something noticed you.”
“You said I wasn’t supposed to awaken yet.”
She looked away. “This world isn’t just a dream. It’s memory. Echoes. Intention. And doors.”
“Doors to what?”
“To deeper layers. Older things. Things that shouldn’t wake.”
Lucen shivered. “But I touched it. That stone. I changed the sky. I didn’t mean to.”
“And something woke.”
“Something… dangerous?”
She didn’t reply.

---
She led him down a hall he hadn’t seen before — broken, overgrown, alive.
The walls shifted faintly. Paintings lined them, blurred and moving when not directly watched.
At the end: a cracked chamber, lit by floating blue orbs.Ancient murals curved above — spirals of memory.
In the center: a pedestal.A glowing stone tablet rested atop it, etched with living runes.
“This is what remains of the First Memory,” she said. “Where dreamwalkers were named.”
Lucen touched the stone.It was warm.
The runes pulsed beneath his skin.And then — not words, but knowing:
> “To remember is to shape.To shape is to awaken.But all awakening demands a price.”


He jerked his hand back.“What does it want?”
She looked at him. “Your choice.”

---
The lights flickered.A low hum began. Like distant bones humming.
Lucen looked up.The murals were changing.
One: A figure standing before the silver tree.Another: The same figure walking through flame.A third: Kneeling before a massive shadow, mouth wide, swallowing stars.
Lucen’s chest tightened. “That’s me.”
“Or a version of you.”
“So I can still change?”
She nodded faintly. “But you’ll have to leave something behind.”
“Leave what?”
The chamber trembled.The lights dimmed. The tablet cracked.
Behind them — a dragging sound.Slow. Rhythmic. Ancient.
The girl froze.
“It followed you.”
Lucen turned. “The One Who Waits?”
“No,” she whispered. “Its echo. But it can still touch you.”
Lucen grabbed her hand. “Then we run.”
“No,” she said. “We stand.”
And then it came.
A faceless figure, cloaked in smoke. No eyes. No voice. Just silence shaped like a man.
It tilted its head — watching.
The girl raised her hand. Silver light pulsed from her palm.
The shadow recoiled, hissing soundlessly.
Lucen felt warmth rise in his chest — the same pulse as before.
He stepped forward.Light sparked from his fingertips — soft, gold.
The shadow paused.Then lunged.
The girl shouted a word — a shield of silver light flared out.
The shadow struck it—And vanished.

---
Silence returned.
Lucen dropped to his knees.
The girl knelt beside him. “You did it.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You remembered.”
He looked at his hand.It still glowed faintly.
Behind them — a door.
New.Unmarked.Half-open.Waiting.
She stared at it.
“He’s here,” she said softly. “The one who waits for you. He always has been.”
Lucen stood.His voice trembled. “And if I open it?”
> “Then you remember everything.”“But?”“But once you do… you might not be able to forget.”