SOMEWHERE IN LOS ANGELES
Raymond Adams lived a life that looked boring from the outside.
He woke up at the same hour every morning, not because he had to, but because his body had decided that consistency was efficient. His apartment was clean in a way that suggested routine rather than obsession. No clutter, no excess decoration, nothing sentimental enough to demand attention. Everything had a place, and everything stayed there.
He worked from home.
The work was abstract—numbers, contracts, assets that existed more as ideas than objects. Money flowed in predictable patterns, well-managed, well-insulated from risk. Raymond did not chase wealth, and wealth, in turn, seemed content to stay where it was. He wore simple clothes, ate simple meals, and owned expensive things only when the cheaper versions failed to meet a practical standard.
By all measurable metrics, his life was successful.
By emotional ones, it was… sufficient.
Raymond preferred being alone. That much was true. Solitude gave him clarity. Silence allowed him to hear his own thoughts without interruption or distortion. He did not enjoy crowds, did not crave validation, did not feel incomplete without constant conversation.
But he did not like being lonely.
Loneliness was different. Loneliness was the awareness that there was no one to interrupt the silence even if he wanted them to. That the quiet was not chosen, but enforced by absence.
Most evenings, after closing his laptop and shutting down the systems that ran quietly in the background of his life, Raymond turned to other worlds.
Books first. Always books.
He read widely and without snobbery—classic literature beside pulp novels, dense philosophy beside lighthearted fiction. He liked stories where people talked to each other, argued, misunderstood, reconciled. Stories where life happened in kitchens, diners, living rooms. Where the stakes were emotional before they were catastrophic.
When his eyes grew tired, he turned to comics. Panels frozen in motion, dialogue compressed into bubbles. Heroes and ordinary people coexisting on the same page. He lingered less on the action and more on the in-between moments—the banter, the downtime, the scenes where nothing exploded.
Later, television. Sitcoms, crime dramas, ensemble shows. Anything with recurring characters who knew each other well enough to be irritated by the smallest habits. He watched people live lives adjacent to the plot—neighbors, coworkers, background regulars who showed up episode after episode simply because they belonged there.
Raymond was not naive. He knew this was a common habit.
Everyone imagined themselves inside their favorite stories. It was human. You watched long enough, read closely enough, and your mind naturally wandered. Where would I fit? Who would I be? What would I say?
Raymond's answers were always the same.
He never imagined himself as the hero.
Not the chosen one. Not the genius prodigy. Not the tortured savior or unstoppable force. Power fantasies bored him. Systems annoyed him. The idea of being "special" felt like unnecessary administrative overhead.
Instead, he imagined himself as the man behind the counter.
The landlord who knew everyone's names.The diner owner who poured coffee without asking.The neighbor who fixed things when they broke.The guy who existed consistently enough that others relaxed around him.
An extra.
Not invisible—just… stable.
He wanted to be the fixed point characters returned to. The place where conversations happened. Where stories intersected without fanfare. Where people sat down because they were tired, not because the plot demanded it.
In his quieter moments, Raymond considered the thought experiment more seriously.
If he died tomorrow—and if, by some absurd cosmic bureaucracy, he were offered reincarnation or transport into one of these worlds—he knew exactly what he would ask for.
No system.
No glowing interface. No leveling mechanics. No destiny carved into him like a brand. He did not want numbers hovering over people's heads or voices narrating his progress.
Just… human ability.
Average, maybe slightly above. Enough to be competent. Enough to be useful. Strong enough to carry groceries, fast enough to step aside when something fell, smart enough to know when to listen instead of speak.
Low key.
He wanted to live in the margins of interesting lives and make them easier.
Raymond paused a show mid-episode one night and stared at the darkened screen, his reflection faintly visible. The apartment felt too large in moments like this. Not empty—just underutilized.
He did not want romance for the sake of romance. He did not want drama. He wanted company. The casual kind. The kind that existed without ceremony.
Someone arguing over seating choices.Someone stealing fries.Someone complaining about work while knowing they would be heard.
He missed conversations he had not yet had.
That realization lingered longer than usual.
Raymond closed the laptop and stood, walking to the window. Below, the city continued its quiet choreography—lights on in kitchens, people passing each other without knowing they would never meet again.
Somewhere out there, lives overlapped naturally.
He did not need more money. He did not need more achievement. He needed a place where his presence mattered in small, repeatable ways.
A routine that included other people.
A reason for the silence to be interrupted.
Raymond did not know it yet, but his preferences were already narrowing. His imagination had been rehearsing for years. All that remained was to stop observing from a distance and step into something adjacent.
Not a spotlight.
A booth.A counter.A building with people in it.
The thought settled comfortably, like it had been waiting.
For the first time in a while, Raymond Adams did not turn back to his books.
He started looking for something else.
FIRSTENCOUNTER
Raymond Adams did not meet God in a flash of light.
There was no thunder. No collapsing ceiling. No sense of destiny snapping into place like a loaded mechanism. Instead, it happened the way most interruptions in Raymond's life did—quietly, inconveniently, and without asking permission.
He was standing in his kitchen, staring at a small pile of keys on the counter.
They were unremarkable keys. One for his apartment. One for a storage unit he barely used. One older key he could no longer remember the lock for, but kept anyway because throwing it away felt wasteful. He turned them absentmindedly, the metal clicking softly against itself.
On the counter beside them lay an envelope.
A lease agreement.
He had not signed it yet.
The property itself was nothing special—ground floor commercial space, slightly outdated utilities, residential floors above. The photos showed a long counter, cracked vinyl booths, and a large front window that looked out onto a street that never fully slept. The name on the old sign was still visible in one image, though faded and half-lit.
'DINER'
The rest of the letters were missing.
Raymond had no urgent reason to buy it. The numbers worked. The location was stable. It was the kind of investment that did not demand attention once settled. He had told himself it was just diversification.
Still, he kept rereading the lease.
"You're stalling," a voice observed mildly.
Raymond did not jump.
He simply sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and said, "I live alone."
"So you do."
He turned.
The man sitting at his small dining table had not been there a moment ago. Average height. Average build. Nondescript in a way that felt deliberate. He wore no uniform, no robe, no indication of authority beyond the fact that reality had apparently made room for him.
The chair across from him was pulled out. The man had helped himself to Raymond's coffee.
Raymond assessed the situation calmly.
"I'm either hallucinating," he said, "or you're trespassing in a way that violates several laws of physics."
The man smiled politely. "I am Random Omnipotent Being. ROB, for short. I prefer informal settings."
Raymond nodded once. "Of course you do."
He sat down across from him. If this was a hallucination, panicking would not improve it. If it was not, then panic would still be inefficient.
ROB glanced at the keys on the counter. "You like objects that open things."
"I like access," Raymond corrected.
"Same difference."
ROB leaned back, balancing his chair on two legs. "You've been imagining alternate lives again."
Raymond did not deny it.
"You do it differently than most," ROB continued. "No conquest. No throne. No grand narrative arc. You always place yourself somewhere… adjacent."
"I don't need to be important," Raymond said evenly. "I need to be present."
ROB's smile sharpened—not amused, but interested.
"You don't want power," ROB said. "You want relevance."
"Yes."
"You don't want to be alone," ROB said. "But you don't want to be needed in a way that consumes you."
"Yes."
"You don't want a system."
Raymond looked up. "Absolutely not."
ROB laughed quietly. "Good. Those are tedious."
He reached forward and tapped the lease agreement with one finger. The paper did not glow. It did not change. But the air around it felt heavier, as if acknowledging its future significance.
"You've been circling a particular idea," ROB said. "A place. A routine. People who come and go but return anyway."
Raymond followed his gaze to the photo of the faded diner sign.
"I like places where people sit down," Raymond said after a moment. "Standing conversations are rushed."
ROB nodded approvingly. "You've built a whole philosophy out of
booths and coffee."
"I've built a preference."
Silence settled comfortably between them.
Finally, Raymond asked the question that mattered.
"This is the part where you offer me something, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"And there's a catch."
"Of course."
Raymond folded his hands. "I won't be a hero."
ROB raised a finger. "You will be competent."
"I won't be chosen."
"You will be positioned."
"I won't be special."
ROB considered that. "Define special."
"No prophecies. No secret lineage. No hidden scoreboard tracking my worth."
ROB grinned. "You drive a hard bargain for someone about to have their life disrupted."
Raymond glanced again at the keys. At the lease. At the sign that no longer had a name.
"I don't want a new life," he said. "I want continuity. Just… populated."
ROB stood.
"That," he said, "is why you're interesting."
He stepped toward the counter and picked up the oldest key—the one Raymond could not place.
"This opens something," ROB said. "Not yet. But soon."
Raymond did not ask what.
ROB paused at the doorway that had not existed before this moment. "When the time comes," he added, "you won't feel like you're crossing over."
"Good," Raymond replied. "I hate transitions."
ROB smiled and was gone.
The apartment was quiet again.
Raymond exhaled slowly and looked down at the lease.
After a long moment, he reached for a pen.
Outside, somewhere he could not yet see, a diner sign waited to be relit.
SECOND ENCOUNTER
The second time Raymond met ROB, it barely registered as unusual.
That, more than anything, should have worried him.
Raymond was half-asleep, seated at his desk with a spreadsheet open and untouched for the past twenty minutes. The apartment was dark except for the desk lamp, its light catching dust motes in the air. Outside, the city murmured—cars passing, someone laughing too loudly three floors down, the distant sound of a siren that did not concern him.
He rubbed his eyes.
"You're burning yourself out inefficiently," a voice said.
Raymond frowned at the screen. "I'm not even doing anything."
"Exactly."
He glanced to the side.
ROB was leaning against the bookshelf, idly flipping a comic upside down. He wore different clothes this time—jeans, a plain jacket. If Raymond hadn't already met him once, he might have assumed this was just another intrusive thought that had learned how to talk back.
"You again," Raymond said mildly.
"Yes."
"No dramatic entrance?"
"I'm workshopping subtlety."
Raymond considered him for a moment, then turned back to his screen. "I don't have time for metaphysics tonight."
ROB smiled. "You never do. That's the point."
Raymond did not argue.
Instead, he closed the laptop.
That was the kind of man he was—when something stopped being productive, he did not cling to it out of obligation. He had learned that early.
His life had not been tragic.
That was important.
He had been raised by a mother who loved him fiercely and practically. She worked hard, taught him to cook simple meals, taught him that independence was not the absence of people but the ability to stand when they were gone. When she passed—quietly, unfairly, but without melodrama—Raymond grieved, adjusted, and continued.
He finished high school.
He worked.
He worked more.
He built something stable, then reinforced it until it could withstand anything.
Including loneliness.
ROB watched him carefully. "You don't define that as loss."
"I define it as life," Raymond replied. "People leave. You keep going."
"And yet," ROB said gently, "you optimized yourself into a corner."
Raymond finally looked at him.
"I don't feel broken," Raymond said.
"I know."
"I don't need fixing."
"Correct."
"I don't regret my choices."
ROB nodded. "You shouldn't."
There was a pause.
Then ROB asked, "Do you enjoy your life?"
Raymond opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Thought.
"I enjoy parts of it," he said honestly.
"Which parts?"
"The quiet," Raymond said. "The control. Knowing tomorrow will look like today."
"And the rest?"
Raymond hesitated.
"That's the part I observe," he admitted. "Through books. Shows. Stories. Other people."
ROB stepped closer, resting a hand on the desk. "You don't want excitement. You want connection without erosion."
"Yes."
"You don't want to be saved."
"No."
"You want to be included."
Raymond exhaled slowly.
"That's not something I can manufacture," he said. "People don't work that way."
ROB's eyes softened—not with pity, but with recognition.
"That," he said, "is the one thing you're right about."
ROB straightened. "Which is why I'm not giving you a new life. I'm giving you a context."
Raymond frowned. "That sounds dangerously like a trick."
"It's not," ROB said. "It's a nudge. A place where your existing tendencies stop isolating you and start anchoring others."
Raymond glanced toward the counter.
The keys were still there.
So was the lease.
He had forgotten about both for several hours.
"That's not power," Raymond said.
"No," ROB agreed. "It's responsibility."
Silence stretched.
Raymond leaned back in his chair. "When does this happen?"
ROB shrugged. "Soon enough that you won't prepare. Late enough that you'll recognize it in hindsight."
He stepped toward the door.
"One more thing," ROB added casually. "You don't get to keep me."
"Good," Raymond said. "I don't like supervision."
ROB laughed. "You'll forget this conversation."
"I doubt that."
"You'll forget how important it was."
ROB vanished.
Raymond sat alone in the quiet apartment.
After a moment, he stood, gathered the keys, and slid them into his pocket.
He picked up the lease.
Tomorrow, he told himself, he would review it properly.
He did not notice that the diner sign in the photo now had a name.
THIRD ENCOUNTER
The third time Raymond met ROB, he was certain of two things.
First, that he had not summoned this.
Second, that this conversation would not leave him unchanged—even if he forgot most of it later.
They were not in Raymond's apartment this time.
They were nowhere specific.
The space resembled a waiting room stripped of intention: no walls, no ceiling, no horizon—just a suggestion of distance and a floor that existed because Raymond expected one. He stood with his hands in his pockets, posture relaxed out of habit rather than comfort.
ROB sat across from him on nothing at all, legs crossed, expression unusually thoughtful.
Raymond broke the silence first. "This is the third time."
ROB nodded. "Yes."
"You're getting chatty."
ROB smiled faintly. "You're getting closer."
Raymond exhaled. "All right. Let's stop circling it. Why me?"
ROB tilted his head. "That's not the right question."
Raymond corrected himself without protest. "Why this?"
ROB leaned back, looking—not up, not down, but elsewhere. When he spoke again, his voice carried weight, not menace. Gravity.
"Because I need to create worlds to survive."
Raymond blinked once.
Then, calmly, "That feels like something you should have led with."
ROB chuckled. "You wouldn't have listened."
Raymond considered that. "Fair."
He shifted his stance. "Define 'need.'"
ROB's gaze returned to him. "The same way you do."
Raymond frowned. "I don't need to create universes."
"No," ROB agreed. "You need stimulation. Meaning. Continuity. Observation without erosion."
The words landed uncomfortably accurately.
ROB continued, conversational now. "I am not sustained by worship. Not by fear. Not by prayers whispered in empty rooms. Those are accessories. I am sustained by novelty that persists."
Raymond crossed his arms. "You get bored."
"Yes."
Just like that.
No thunder. No echo.
"Yes," ROB repeated, almost sheepishly. "Books help. Movies help. Comics help. For a while. But they are static. Finite. They end."
"So you make your own content," Raymond said slowly.
ROB's grin widened. "Exactly."
Raymond huffed a quiet laugh. "You're telling me the universe is a subscription service."
"More like a long-form anthology," ROB corrected. "I don't need to micromanage. I just need to watch."
Raymond's fingers twitched, mind racing, tapping into patterns he recognized too well—stories he had read, theories he had absorbed.
"So basically," Raymond said, "you're like those constellation comics and novels. Where higher beings sponsor worlds for entertainment. And if they get bored—"
ROB burst into laughter.
Not a polite laugh.
Not even a human one.
It was vast, rolling, layered—sound folding over itself. The space around them trembled, just slightly, as if reality itself had flinched at being amused by something larger than it.
Raymond felt it in his chest more than his ears.
ROB wiped at his eyes, still grinning. "Oh, Raymond. That's adorable."
Raymond waited, unflinching.
"That," ROB said, regaining composure, "is a weak god's behavior."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, suddenly very focused.
"I am not some bored adolescent deity flipping tables when the narrative dips," ROB said. "I am not here to destroy you, reset you, or drop monsters through portals for drama."
Raymond studied him carefully. "You're saying I'm safe."
ROB waved a hand. "Entirely. You can imagine me like a billionaire on your Earth. One who buys islands. Rainforests. Old buildings. Not because they need them—but because they can."
He smiled, sharp and bright. "I don't burn them down when I get bored. I let them exist. Sometimes I invest. Sometimes I renovate."
Raymond absorbed that.
"So I'm real estate."
ROB laughed again, softer this time. "You're a neighborhood."
That landed differently.
Raymond looked down at his hands. "And the diner. The building. The people."
ROB nodded. "Organic convergence. You create places where stories overlap without forcing them. You don't dominate narratives. You host them."
Silence followed.
Not awkward. Just full.
Finally, Raymond spoke. "You know I'm not special."
ROB's expression softened—not indulgent, not patronizing.
"I know," he said. "That's why you work."
ROB stood.
"This is not about destiny," he added. "It's about compatibility. You don't want to be powerful. You want to be present. And I need worlds that don't collapse under observation."
He stepped back.
"You won't remember this clearly," ROB said. "You'll rationalize it. File it under metaphor."
Raymond nodded. "I always do."
ROB smiled. "Good. Then we're done."
The space folded.
Raymond found himself back in his apartment, standing near the window. The city hummed below, indifferent and alive.
On the table lay his keys.
The lease.
And, faintly reflected in the glass, a diner sign that had not been there before.
Raymond picked up the keys.
He did not feel chosen.
He felt… employed.
And for the first time in a very long while, that felt like enough.
LAST ENCOUNTER
The last time Raymond met ROB, it felt final in a way that did not require announcement.
There was no void this time, no abstract waiting room or trembling reality. They were seated at a small, ordinary table—wooden, slightly scratched, the kind you would find in a back office or an understaffed diner. Sunlight poured in from somewhere Raymond could not see, warm and familiar, like Los Angeles in late afternoon.
ROB leaned back in his chair, relaxed, unbothered, already acting like the conversation was halfway over.
"All right," ROB said casually. "Let's talk about the transition."
Raymond straightened, attentive in a way he rarely was with anyone. He had learned by now: when ROB explained things plainly, it mattered.
"There's no dramatic rebirth," ROB continued. "No portal. No truck hitting you. No cosmic elevator."
Raymond appreciated that more than he expected.
"It's the same world," ROB said, tapping the tabletop once. "Same template. I just… copy it. Apply a few tweaks."
Raymond frowned slightly. "Tweaks."
"Yes. You'll still be in Los Angeles. I know you like the sun." ROB smirked. "The weather stays. The city stays. The traffic stays. But you'll start seeing new people."
Raymond nodded slowly, absorbing it. "So nothing breaks."
"Nothing breaks," ROB confirmed. "From your perspective, it'll feel like continuity. Like you just… always belonged there."
Raymond hesitated, then asked the question that had been forming since the first encounter. "So what world is it? What show? Series? Novel? Book?"
ROB chuckled, clearly amused. "Relax."
He leaned forward slightly. "It's a mix. Your favorites. Overlapping in ways that feel natural."
Raymond's shoulders loosened. "No supernatural powers?"
"No magic," ROB said. "No monsters. No gods walking around throwing lightning. Just people."
Raymond exhaled, relieved. "Good."
Then, quieter, more careful. "What about me? Do I need to tell you what I want? Abilities, advantages—"
ROB waved a hand dismissively. "My friend. I already molded you."
Raymond blinked.
"You are," ROB said simply, "the sum of everything you imagined yourself to be over the years."
Raymond sat with that. Then nodded.
"Can I ask one more thing?" he said.
ROB gestured for him to continue.
"Is my current world… one of yours?" Raymond asked. "And if it is—does that mean there's already a main character?"
ROB's lips curled into a knowing smirk. "You really are the smart one."
Raymond held his breath.
"Yes," ROB said. "And you already know who the main character is. He's an old story. Taught in schools. Homes. Churches."
Realization hit Raymond all at once.
"You mean," he said slowly, "Jesus."
ROB nodded once. "Enough theology. We've got logistics."
He leaned back again. "Now. Memory."
Raymond stiffened. "What about it?"
"Do you want it?" ROB asked. "Do you want to know how every story ends? Every arc. Every outcome."
Raymond closed his eyes.
When he spoke, it was careful, deliberate. "No. I don't want the whole story."
ROB watched him closely.
"I just want intuition," Raymond continued. "A feeling. Like… recognition. So if I meet them, I'll understand who they are without knowing everything."
ROB smiled, genuinely pleased. "That's enough."
He snapped his fingers.
The table vanished—replaced by stacks of documents. Deeds. Leases. Blueprints. Contracts. A familiar diner sign sketched into the margins of one page.
"Paperwork time," ROB announced cheerfully.
Raymond laughed under his breath and sat down. He skimmed, signed, flipped pages with the confidence of someone who trusted the outcome more than the details.
As he worked, ROB kept talking.
"You'll be rich enough to do what you want," ROB said. "And what you need. You'll go as you are now. Same background."
Raymond paused briefly, then continued signing.
"The only difference," ROB added, "is college. You were a gifted investor. You built your wealth quietly. You're retired early. Now you're a landlord."
Raymond glanced up. "With tenants."
"And a diner," ROB confirmed. "You don't need to worry. Just do you."
Raymond signed the last page and leaned back.
"So," he asked, "will I forget about you?"
ROB didn't hesitate. "Of course."
Raymond nodded. "That makes sense."
"It would be mind-shattering otherwise," ROB said. "Don't worry. Your intuition will guide you."
Raymond inhaled deeply, steadying himself.
"One last personal question," he said.
ROB raised an eyebrow. "Go on."
ROB answered before Raymond could speak. "Yes, I know I look like Adam Sandler. I picked that profile because he's funny."
Raymond blinked, then laughed.
"There is no way," ROB continued smugly, "you could handle the consequences of seeing my original, devastatingly handsome form."
"Yeah," Raymond said dryly. "Right."
ROB stood. "You're going to wake up soon. You already bought the building. The diner too. Renovations are underway."
Raymond listened carefully.
Then ROB flicked Raymond's forehead.
"Enjoy the ride," ROB said lightly. "Mr. Adams."
The sensation came instantly—like gravity letting go.
Raymond felt his body and soul separate, cleanly, gently, and then—
Darkness.
Not fear.
Not pain.
Just the quiet certainty that when he opened his eyes again, he would be exactly where he needed to be.
FULLFILLING DAY
Raymond woke with a violent intake of breath, his body snapping upright as though someone had yanked him out of deep water.
For a moment, he didn't know where he was.
His chest rose and fell too quickly, his heart thudding against his ribs with stubborn urgency. Sweat dampened the collar of his shirt and slicked his palms. The room was dim, washed in early morning gray, the kind of light that made familiar shapes feel briefly unfamiliar.
He stayed still, listening.
No alarms. No sirens. No voice calling his name.
Just the low hum of the city outside and the faint ticking of the clock on his nightstand.
A dream, then.
Raymond exhaled slowly and swung his legs over the side of the bed, elbows resting on his knees. He pressed his palms together, grounding himself in the simple pressure of skin against skin. His body gradually remembered that it was safe. That nothing was chasing him. That nothing had gone wrong.
Still, something lingered.
He closed his eyes, trying to retrace the path back into sleep, back into whatever had jolted him awake. Images hovered just out of reach—fragments without context. A table that felt too solid to be imaginary. The weight of keys in his hand. Paper sliding beneath his fingers as he signed something important, something final.
There had been a voice.
Not threatening. Not comforting either. Casual. Amused. As if everything being discussed—worlds, choices, futures—was no more serious than ordering coffee.
Raymond frowned.
"Don't do this," he muttered to himself. "You're awake now."
He stood and made his way to the bathroom, flicking on the light. The brightness felt harsh after the muted quiet of the bedroom. He leaned over the sink and splashed cold water onto his face, letting it drip down his jaw, into the basin.
When he looked up, the mirror showed the same man he had been yesterday.
Early thirties. Dark hair slightly mussed from sleep. Lines of fatigue that never quite went away no matter how well he rested. A calm expression that people often mistook for distance.
Normal.
He stared at his reflection a little longer than necessary.
"There was something," he said quietly, as if his reflection might answer. "Wasn't there?"
The reflection, predictably, said nothing.
He dried his face and left the bathroom, the faint unease following him like a shadow that refused to detach. The apartment was still, tidy in the way only someone who lived alone could maintain without effort. Everything was where he'd left it. Couch. Shelves. Books stacked with deliberate care. A life built on order and control.
He moved into the kitchen and started his morning routine on autopilot.
Kettle filled. Beans ground. Mug set out.
The ritual steadied him. The scent of coffee bloomed through the air, rich and familiar, pulling him further into the present. As the kettle clicked off, Raymond poured the water and watched the dark liquid swirl, steam curling upward like a slow, deliberate breath.
He carried the mug to the small dining table.
And stopped.
There were papers spread neatly across its surface.
Not junk mail. Not notes. Official documents. Crisp edges. Heavy stock.
His heart skipped—not with fear, but with surprise sharp enough to sting.
Raymond set the mug down carefully and picked up the top sheet.
A deed.
He flipped to the next page. Then the next.
An apartment building. Multiple units. Ownership transferred. His name printed clearly, confidently, as if it had always belonged there. A lease agreement. Renovation timelines. Contractor invoices. A familiar logo at the bottom of one page: Ray's Diner.
His fingers tightened slightly on the paper.
"This is new," he said under his breath.
He sat down slowly, coffee forgotten, and began to read in earnest. Everything was meticulous. Legal. Thorough. The kind of paperwork that couldn't exist by accident or mistake. Dates lined up. Funds allocated. Signatures—his signature—appeared again and again.
A penthouse unit listed at the top floor.
Raymond let out a soft, incredulous laugh, rubbing his forehead.
"Well," he said quietly, "that explains the dream. Or… part of it."
The details still refused to fully return. The conversation. The explanations. The impossible logic that had somehow made sense at the time. Whatever had happened, it had left behind evidence—solid, undeniable proof sitting on his dining table.
He took a long sip of coffee now, the heat grounding him again, and leaned back in his chair.
Instead of panic, a strange calm settled over him.
This wasn't chaos. It wasn't destruction. It felt… intentional.
Raymond glanced at the renovation schedule, then at the blueprint folded neatly beneath it. A diner on the ground floor. Apartments above. A building designed to be lived in, not just owned. A place with movement. Noise. People.
Company.
He hadn't realized how much he wanted that until the thought settled comfortably in his chest.
"I should go check on the renovation," he murmured, already reaching for his phone. "Make sure everything's on track."
The words came easily, as if he'd already said them once before.
He made a quick note to call a moving company. No point maintaining two spaces when the penthouse would be ready soon. The idea of packing up his things—his books, his clothes, the quiet pieces of his old routine—felt less like an ending and more like a transition.
A step forward.
Raymond stood, stretching slightly, and looked around his apartment one last time before heading to get dressed. Nothing here felt wrong. Nothing felt lost. It was simply… complete.
As he grabbed his keys, that lingering sensation returned—the one that had followed him since waking. A lightness. A quiet anticipation humming beneath his skin.
He paused at the door, brow furrowing.
"Why," he asked the empty room, "do I feel so happy today?"
The room offered no answers.
Raymond smiled anyway and stepped out, ready—though he didn't yet know why—for whatever came next.