Day 150. I keep walking. There’s no reason to, but stopping feels worse. The cold settles in. My thoughts blur. A feeling creeps in, like I’m circling somewhere I’ve been before. I pause, breath clouding. A whisper escapes before I can stop it: “It’s quiet here. Cold. Barren. Where is everyone?”

Day 149. The space stretches in every direction. Grey, silent, endless. My footsteps echo against nothing. No figures. No voice. No light. Still, something pulls me forwards. I walk into the blackness. The emptiness isn’t unfamiliar. I’ve walked here before. I don’t remember when. But my bones do.

Day 148. I stand at the threshold, unsure if I should step through or turn back. But there is no back. Only a weight behind me, urging me forward. The choice feels distant now, like it’s already been made. I take a breath. Then another step. The doorway closes behind me without a sound. I am alone.

Day 147. I step toward the doorway. It hums. A low, resonant sound that fills my chest. The air thickens, pushing back against me. Behind, the path is gone. Only the figure remains, watching. “Don’t look back,” it says. I hesitate, then cross the threshold. The hum becomes a whisper. Then, silence.

Day 146. I don’t answer. I don’t know how to answer. The figure steps aside, revealing a doorway pulsing like it's alive. “This is where it truly begins,” it says. “When you enter, you leave yourself behind.” My voice is barely a whisper. “And if I don’t?” The figure smiles. “But you already have.”

Day 145. I stop a few steps short of the figure. It’s cloaked, featureless, yet something about it feels familiar, yet wrong. It tilts its head. “You came farther than most.” My throat is dry. “What are you?” The figure doesn’t answer. Instead, it asks, “Why do you think this path let you through?”

Day 144. The air thins as I move forward. Each breath feels borrowed. The path narrows, no longer light or shadow but both. Blended and flickering. A shape waits for me ahead, unmoving. Not welcoming, not hostile. Just present. My steps slow. Whatever this is, it was never meant to be crossed alone.

Day 143. The earth shifts beneath my feet as I walk. The paths stretch endlessly, yet I feel watched with every step. Above, the rift pulses like a heartbeat. Behind me, the figure fades into shadow. Ahead, the light and dark twist together, forming something new. Unclear. Unstable. Waiting.

Day 142. The ground trembles with each word. I look at the figure but it offers no guidance. The rift widens, the darkness inside pulling at me. Two paths form in the broken earth, one toward the light, one into shadow. My heart pounds. The choice isn’t mine. It never was. I step forward.

Day 141. The sky peels open with a sound like splitting stone. Beyond the cracks, darkness moves. It's seems alive, shifting. I step back instinctively. The figure watches me, silent. From the rift above, a voice echoes down, vast and hollow. “One world ends. Another begins. Choose your place.”

Day 140. The cracks spread, weaving a web across the sky. Light bleeds through, cold and sharp. The figure steps back into the shadows. “This is where you choose.” My mouth is dry. “Choose what?” No answer. Only the sound of the sky tearing, and the terrible sense that something is coming through.

Day 139. The light rises again, leaving a faint mark where it touched the ground. The figure stands. “It’s begun,” it says. My legs still shake, but I manage to stand. Above us, the sky cracks, thin lines of light spidering outward. “What has?” I whisper. The figure just looks up. “Everything.”

Day 138. The warmth deepens, crawling beneath my skin. I gasp. Visions of fractured places, symbols I don’t recognise, faces half-formed. My knees buckle. The figure watches silently. “They’re showing you,” it says. “What will be.” My voice breaks. “And if I refuse?” It doesn’t blink. “You won’t.”

Day 137. The light touches the ground and spreads outward, slow and deliberate, encircling me. I try to step back but my legs won’t move. The figure lowers its head. “Don’t resist,” it says. A warmth floods through me. Not comfort but pressure. Like something pushing its way in.

Day 136. The light pulses again, once, twice, then steady. The figure turns its gaze upward. “They’ve decided.” My chest tightens. “Decided what?” It doesn’t answer. Instead, it kneels once more. The ground trembles beneath me, soft and rhythmic, like a heartbeat. The light begins to descend.

Day 135. The figure stops just short of me. “They’re still watching,” it says, eyes flicking upward. “What happens next depends on them.” I glance toward the light. Shapes shift behind it, indistinct and immense. “If they choose you,” the figure adds, “you won’t be the same. Not after this.”

Day 134. The figure tilts its head. “You broke the pattern,” it says. I stay silent, every instinct screaming to run. “Most fall. Most forget.” It steps forward, slow and careful. “But you climbed.” The light overhead pulses, and for a moment, I see others beyond it. Watching. Waiting. Deciding.

Day 133. The figure doesn’t move, but something about it has changed. It no longer kneels. It no longer chants. Its eyes—if they are eyes—glow faintly. I take a step back. It mirrors me. “Why didn’t you fall?” it asks, voice low and curious. I don’t answer. I don’t trust that I’m meant to.

Day 132. I haul myself over the edge, chest heaving. The ground is cracked, glowing faintly beneath my hands. Behind me, the chasm closes with a low groan. The voice is silent now. I look up. The light is brighter. Warmer. But I’m not alone. One of the kneeling figures is standing. Watching.

Day 131. My hand finds stone, solid and real. I pull, my muscles screaming. The voice snaps sharp and cold. “You don’t get to choose.” The ledge cracks beneath me. I scramble higher, lungs burning. The light above pulses then steadies. The air shifts. Something is changing. It knows I didn’t let go.

Day 130. I shut my eyes. The man's voice echoes in my mind, clear and steady. “Don’t trust what speaks like it knows you.” My grip tightens. The voice above me hisses, the kindness gone. “He chose this.” The light flickers overhead, faint but steady. I reach for it, hand trembling.

Day 129. The voice softens. “You’ve come so far. Why keep suffering?” I grit my teeth, fingers screaming. The ground above crumbles. “Let go,” it says, almost kind. “I can show you where he went.” My grip falters for a second. Just a second. Enough for the doubt to slip in.

Day 128. The world tilts sharply and I fall, sliding toward the widening chasm. At the edge, I catch hold of a jagged ledge. Below, only darkness. The voice lingers above me. “You should let go.” My fingers burn, but I hold on. The silence beneath me isn’t empty. It’s breathing. Waiting.

Day 127. The cracks widen, splitting the ground into jagged lines. I stagger to my feet. “You took him,” I say, my voice raw. The silence that follows is deafening. Then the voice returns, softer now. “He offered himself. You watched.” The ground shifts again, tilting beneath me.

Day 126. The tremble builds to a low, grinding rumble. Cracks split the ground beneath me. I scramble back, heart racing. “Wait,” I whisper, though I don’t know to who. The light above flickers uncertainly. Then the voice again, calm and cold: “You were never going to leave together.”

Day 125. The light fades. He’s gone. Nothing remains. No sound, no shape, not even shadow. I drop to my knees. The air is still, too still. Then the voice returns, no longer distant. It speaks from everywhere and nowhere at once: “Now it’s your turn.” The ground trembles beneath me.

Day 124. I feel it reach toward me. Not with hands, but with intent. The man steps forward. “Take me,” he says. His voice shakes, but he doesn’t stop. The void shifts. For a moment, everything holds. Then the light flares again, blinding. My vocal cords unlock and I scream, but he’s already gone.

Day 123. The man doesn’t look at me. He just says, “If it chooses me, run.” I shake my head, but no words come. The thing leans closer, the void of its face shifting. The air grows impossibly still. A soft chime sounds, like glass cracking. Then the comes voice again, sharp and definite: “Choose.”

Day 122. The chanting stops. Silence crashes down like a wave. The thing tilts its head. No eyes, but I feel its gaze anyway. The man shifts slightly. “It’s choosing.” I want to run, scream, anything, but I’m frozen. The air grows colder. Then the voice, barely audible: “One stays. One leaves.”

Day 121. It moves, slow and deliberate. The ground groans beneath its weight. The man whispers, “Don’t move.” I barely nod. The light warps, pulled toward the thing’s form. No face, only shifting void. The kneeling figures chant, their voices monotone. Whatever this is, it isn’t meant to be here.

Day 120. The ground splits wide. Light bursts upward, searing and wrong. The man stumbles back, pulling me with him. From the fracture, something rises—vast and shrouded in shadow. I can’t breathe. The voice trembles now. “You should have stayed hidden.” The light bends around the shape. It sees us.

Day 119. The touch on my mind lingers, cold and searching. I flinch. The man steps in front of me, shielding me. “Leave us alone!” he yells into the dark. Silence follows. Then the voice, no longer soft: “Too late.” The ground beneath us cracks, light spilling through the fractures. It's here.

Day 118. The sound grows, not louder—closer. The man grabs my arm saying “We can’t stay here” but I can't move. The light dims, swallowed by the dark. The shapes vanish. Only the kneeling figures remain. The voice speaks again, softer now. “It looks for you.” Something brushes the edge of my mind.

Day 117. The pressure builds, crushing me. The man exhales sharply. “We need to—” but his words are cuts off. The air moves and a low, guttural sound rumbles through the space. The kneeling figures press their foreheads to the ground. The voice murmurs, almost pleased. “It knows you’re here.”

Day 116. The breath comes again, slow and heavy. The man swallows hard, his voice low. “That’s new.” The light twists, pulled toward an unseen force. The flickering shapes kneel, heads bowed. The voice returns, almost reverent. “You’ve woken it.” The air thickens, pressing down. Something is here.

Day 115. The ripple becomes a tremor. The man steadies himself, eyes darting. “Tell me you hear that.” The flickering shapes recede, but the voice remains. “It’s too late.” A deep, shuddering breath fills the air, vast and unseen. The shards of light pulse, drawn toward something beyond sight.

Day 114. The shards of light twist, pulling toward each other. The hum deepens. The man steps in front of me. “I think we're in trouble.” The flickering shapes shift, watching. The voice returns, closer this time. “You don’t understand what door you’ve opened.” The air ripples as something stirs.

Day 113. The voice lingers, low and steady. “You shouldn’t be here.” The man tenses. “Who are you?” But there's no answer. The flickering shapes sharpen, almost human but not quite. The air presses in, heavy. A distant hum rises, vibrating through my bones. The jagged shards of light begin to move.

Day 112. The broken light hovers in jagged shards, glowing softly. The man steadies himself. “We need to move.” But I can’t. The air is thick, distorted. Shapes flicker at the edges of my vision, half-formed. Then, a voice—not the entity’s, not the figures’. Something else. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Day 111. A sound like shattering glass rings out. The light fractures, splintering into jagged pieces. The figures vanish. The man stumbles, his grip tightening. “What did you do?” he gasps. My chest tightens. The space around us is wrong—fractured, shifting. Nothing is where it should be.

Day 110. The light swallows everything. My vision blurs, my body weightless. The man’s grip slips. “Stay with me!” His voice is distant. The figure stands untouched, watching. “No more waiting,” it says. The world bends—stretching, unraveling. Then, with a shuddering lurch, it breaks.

Day 109. The light surges, swallowing the figures in a blinding glow. The man yanks me back. “Don’t let it touch you!” The ground trembles beneath us. The figure’s voice cuts through the chaos, steady and certain. “It’s time.” The light pulses again, stretching closer, wrapping the world in itself.

Day 108. The movement beyond the figures takes shape—tall, shifting, watching. My breath catches. “Come,” the figure says again, patient. The man’s grip tightens. “No! We need to run!” The entity laughs softly. “Run where? There’s nowhere left but forward.” The light pulses, stretching toward me.

Day 107. The light flares, blinding. The figures remain still, hands raised. “Step forward,” one urges. The man grips my arm. “Don’t.” The entity hums in delight. “They’re offering you a path. But do you know where it leads?” My pulse pounds. The light shifts, revealing something moving beyond them.

Day 106. The figures halt. “Alone?” one echoes, its voice almost amused. “You were never alone.” The man pulls me back. “Let’s get out of here.” The entity’s whisper coils around us. “You can't leave. You can only step deeper.” The figures lift their hands, the light behind them flaring.

Day 105. The nearest figure tilts its head. “You’ve been seeking us,” it murmurs. My stomach twists. The shape grips me tighter. “No,” the man says firmly. “Leave us alone!“ The entity chuckles. “But you have, haven’t you? Even before you knew what you were looking for.” The figures step closer.

Day 104. The figures stop just beyond the light, their forms wavering. “Come,” one says, its voice layered, distorted. The shape at my side tightens its grip. The man’s breath is ragged. “This isn’t right.” The entity hums in satisfaction. “Go on, then. Step into the unknown—see what welcomes you.”

Day 103. The figures in the light step closer, their hollow eyes locked on me. The shape grips my arm. “Choose,” it pleads. The man shakes his head. “We don’t know what they want.” The entity’s voice curls around me, almost amused. “But you do, don’t you? You’ve felt them watching.”

Day 102. My breath catches. The figures in the light remain still, their hollow eyes unblinking. The shape tugs at me urgently. “Quick, before it’s too late.” The man tightens his grip. “We don’t know what they are!” The entity’s laughter slithers through the dark. “But they know you.”

Day 101. The man pulls, but the shadows pull harder. The shape reaches for me, its shifting face almost mine. “Come with me,” it urges. The entity snarls: “You think you’re escaping?” The light flickers, revealing towering figures behind it—watching, waiting, their hollow eyes locked on me.