The morning felt heavier than usual.
Not because of the sky — it was bright, clear, and strangely silent — but because of what Ethan carried within him: a quiet pull, a whisper that refused to fade since that call last night.
He hadn't slept. The voice of the old man still echoed through his mind — calm, deliberate, and far too familiar for a stranger.
"Come home, Ethan. It's time."
Home.
That word had never meant much to him.
He had a dorm room filled with borrowed furniture, textbooks stained with old coffee, and a few memories he never asked for.
He didn't belong to anyone anymore.
But now, something inside him stirred — not curiosity, not fear — something colder.
A sense that if he didn't go, something would come instead.
---
Convincing the university was easier than expected. His professor didn't even ask much, only gave a nod that felt too knowing. "Family matters," Ethan said, his voice steady but empty.
Even his dormmate, Ryan, didn't argue. He only handed him a bag of biscuits and a thin smile. "You'll be back, right?"
Ethan didn't answer.
He just left.
Nine hours.
That's how long it took.
The train crawled through the countryside, past rivers that looked like mirrors and hills that leaned into clouds. The closer he got to the coordinates the old man had sent, the more the world seemed to change — as if peeling away from everything human.
The roads thinned.
The air grew colder.
And the silence — deeper than any he had ever known — pressed against his window like glass trying to breathe.
He watched small towns pass by, their people looking up at the train with brief glances — almost wary, as if they knew where he was going. Once, a child on the platform pointed at him and whispered something to his mother. She pulled the child close and looked away.
By the time the train stopped, the sun had already fallen behind the ridges.
Ethan stepped out, his breath turning white in the dim air.
The station was empty — no name, no lights, just a wooden sign hanging crookedly, its letters faded beyond reading.
He walked.
The path was narrow and winding, paved in uneven stones that looked centuries old. The trees that flanked it leaned in, their branches knotted like hands trying to hold secrets.
He could hear nothing but his footsteps — soft, rhythmic, alone.
Hours passed before the forest began to open, revealing the beginning of the mountains. They rose like walls, black against the faint moonlight. There was a metal sign nailed into a stone pillar near the pass —
"No Entry Beyond This Point. Authorized Personnel Only."
The words were worn, rust eating the edges. Yet something about them didn't feel like warning.
It felt like invitation.
He hesitated, his eyes tracing the line where the path vanished into fog.
His chest tightened — not from fear, but recognition.
He didn't know why.
A faint wind passed through, carrying something like a whisper. Not a word, not quite a sound — just a call, faint and distant.
Ethan turned his head, his pulse slowing as the fog ahead seemed to move, revealing a faint golden shimmer — a light that wasn't from the moon.
He stepped forward. Once. Twice.
And then — the mountains split.
Not literally, but the mist parted enough for him to see it:
a city, hidden deep within the valley, sleeping beneath a pale blue glow.
It wasn't like anything on the maps.
Houses carved into cliffs, lanterns hanging from bridges, streets that shimmered faintly as if lined with stars.
The air there didn't move like the rest of the world — it breathed.
He stood there, frozen, the wind quieting around him.
No birds. No sound. Only that endless hum beneath his feet — deep, ancient, waiting.
He didn't know where he was.
He didn't know why he was here.
But something inside him whispered again — soft, certain, almost kind:
> "Welcome home, Ethan."
And as he took his first step toward the hidden city, the mountains behind him closed in silence, as if erasing the path he came from.