Jake Hoenet woke to silence.
Not the kind he knew — not the hush of early morning or the muffled quiet of snow. This silence had weight. It pressed against his ears like water, thick and humming. He opened his eyes and saw a sky that pulsed, not with clouds or stars, but with colour. It shifted slowly from violet to green, then to a shade he had no name for.
He sat up. The ground beneath him was soft, like moss, but dry. It glowed faintly under his hands. There were no trees. No buildings. No wind.
Jake's backpack was gone. His phone, too. He checked his pockets: empty. Only the clothes he'd worn yesterday — jeans, hoodie, sneakers — still clung to him, now dusted with a fine shimmer.
He stood, wobbling. The horizon bent slightly, as if the world curved too close. In the distance, something moved — not walking, not flying, but flowing. A shape like a person, but stretched, gliding across the land.
Jake took a breath. The air tasted like mint and metal.
He whispered, "Where am I?"
The silence answered with a low hum, and the sky turned blue.