Chapter 172: The First Story

Eden woke to the sound of rain. For a moment, he didn’t open his eyes. The sound was gentle and familiar, rain tapping against glass in a steady rhythm that made the outside world feel distant. Somewhere nearby, a refrigerator hummed, pipes clicked inside the walls, and a car passed along a wet street. They were normal sounds, human sounds, the kind he hadn’t heard in what felt like forever.

When he finally opened his eyes, he found himself lying in a bed. A real bed. Not the endless white space, not the strange room beyond the story, and not one of the countless worlds he had created. It was a bedroom. His bedroom, or at least one that looked exactly like it. Gray curtains covered the window, a wooden dresser stood against the opposite wall, clothes were draped over a chair in the corner, and an old phone rested on the nightstand.

Eden stared at the phone and felt his chest tighten. He knew it. He had owned it before Luna, before Aria, before everything. Reaching for it, he turned on the screen and saw the time: 6:14 AM. There were no notifications, no messages, and no missed calls. Only a photograph on the wallpaper. The image showed him as a child, perhaps ten years old, smiling while his father stood behind him with a hand resting on his shoulder. Eden remembered the day the photograph had been taken, yet something about it felt wrong. His father was looking directly at the camera, but young Eden wasn’t. He was staring at something outside the frame, something that wasn’t visible in the picture but had definitely been there.

A knock sounded from the bedroom door, instantly stealing his attention. His breathing stopped when he heard the voice on the other side. "Son?" It was his father’s voice. Another knock followed. "You awake?" Eden remained silent as the door slowly opened and his father stepped inside. For several seconds, he couldn’t speak. The man looked exactly as he remembered him, with the same dark hair, tired smile, and old watch on his wrist. Yet now Eden noticed something he had never noticed before. His father wasn’t looking directly at him. His gaze rested slightly behind him, toward an empty corner of the room.

Following the direction of his father’s eyes, Eden saw nothing there. When his father finally looked back at him and greeted him with a simple "Morning," Eden swallowed hard before asking the first question that came to mind. "What year is it?" His father frowned in confusion and asked why he wanted to know. Eden insisted, and after a long pause, his father finally answered. "2009."

The answer made his stomach drop. Looking down at his hands, Eden realized they were much smaller than they should have been. He jumped from the bed and rushed toward the mirror. A ten-year-old boy stared back at him. Pressing a hand against the glass, he watched the reflection mirror the movement exactly. "No," he whispered. Behind him, his father called his name, but Eden shook his head. "I’m not ten."

His father fell silent for a moment before quietly replying, "I know." Eden turned sharply toward him. The confusion had vanished from the man’s face, replaced by sadness. "You finally remembered." The room seemed to freeze around those words. Eden backed away, demanding to know whether his father had known all along. The man nodded and admitted he didn’t know everything, but he knew enough. When Eden pressed him for answers, his father looked toward the window and confessed that this wasn’t the first time they had shared this conversation.

The revelation sent a chill through him. "How many times?" he asked. His father didn’t answer directly, only saying there had been enough. Eden stared at him for several seconds before coming to a realization. "You’re one of them." His father denied being a Reader, a Witness, or an Author. Finally, when Eden demanded to know what he was, the man gave a simple answer. "I’m your memory."

Without waiting for a response, his father walked toward the window and explained that Eden kept trying to understand everything as though every strange thing required a person behind it—a creator, a monster, or a god. Sometimes there wasn’t one. When Eden demanded to know what this place was, his father answered that it was a memory. Not someone else’s memory. His.

As soon as he said it, the room began to change. The walls stretched outward, the furniture faded, and even the rain beyond the window stopped. The bedroom became transparent, revealing another room behind it. Then another. Then another. Soon hundreds of rooms layered over one another, each containing a different version of Eden. Some were children, some teenagers, some old men. One held Luna. Another held Aria. Some were writing, some sleeping, some screaming, and some sitting completely alone. Every version was watching.

His father spoke softly as Eden stared at the countless reflections of himself. He explained that Eden kept searching for the first version of himself, but there wasn’t one. There was only the first story. As more rooms appeared, Eden watched different futures and possibilities unfold before his eyes. In one, Luna stood beside him while Aria sat laughing at a table. In another, Luna was dead. In another, Aria was gone. Some versions showed him alone, while others revealed him as a monster, a Reader, or even an Author.

The endless possibilities continued multiplying until Eden finally asked how many existed. His father answered with another question, asking how many stars there were. When Eden admitted he didn’t know, his father simply smiled sadly. The answer was the same. Looking back at him, Eden asked how he was supposed to know which version was real. Instead of answering, his father turned and walked toward the door.

Beyond the doorway stretched the hallway of their old house. Something immediately felt wrong. Every family photograph that should have hung on the walls was gone. Only empty frames remained. Eden stepped into the hallway and asked where the pictures had gone. His father replied that they had never been pictures at all. As soon as he said it, words began appearing inside the empty frames.

Each frame contained a moment from Eden’s life. His birth. His childhood. His first day of school. His first friendship and first heartbreak. Meeting Luna. Marrying Luna. Aria’s birth. Her first steps and first word. The hospital. Death. Every memory he had ever remembered and every one he had forgotten. Drawn toward one frame, Eden reached out and touched it.

The scene inside shifted immediately. He saw himself sitting at a desk and writing. But this version wasn’t twenty-seven years old. He was ten. The same age Eden was now. Young Eden sat with a pencil in his trembling hand while his father stood behind him. When Eden asked what he was writing, his father quietly replied that it was the first story.

Leaning closer, Eden watched the child write a sentence. Once there was a boy who was afraid of being alone. Another followed. So he imagined someone who would always stay. Then another. He called her Luna.

Eden’s heart skipped a beat. The child kept writing. Then he imagined a daughter. Her name was Aria. Tears filled Eden’s eyes as he stepped backward in disbelief. His father explained that this was where Eden misunderstood everything. He believed Luna and Aria had been created after he lost them, but that wasn’t true. They had existed before.

When Eden demanded an explanation, his father pointed toward the frame. Long before meeting Luna at twenty years old, ten-year-old Eden had already been writing about her. He had described her dark hair, her nervous laugh, her fear of being alone, and her habit of pretending to be stronger than she was. Every detail matched perfectly. Another sentence appeared. She will love me even when I don’t deserve it.

Eden could barely breathe. His father explained that he hadn’t created Luna. He had remembered her before they ever met. Turning toward another frame, Eden saw young Eden drawing a little girl with the same crooked smile and familiar face. Aria. His hands began to shake as he realized he had known her too, long before she had been born. When he asked how that was possible, his father explained that the first story wasn’t about what happened. It was about what was going to happen.

The hallway suddenly plunged into darkness. Every frame went black. His father froze. Looking around in alarm, Eden asked what had happened. His father only whispered that someone had noticed. Before he could ask who, another voice answered from somewhere behind them.

"Me."

Eden turned and saw the First Author standing at the far end of the hallway. This time there was no hidden face. The man looked exactly like him—not the child or the adult he knew, but the original version that existed before all the worlds. The Author smiled wearily and admitted that he had warned Eden not to look this far back.

When Eden confronted him about Luna and Aria, the Author calmly admitted that he had always known. Yet when Eden demanded to know why he had still lost them, the man’s expression darkened. The first story, he explained, was never supposed to happen. Luna and Aria weren’t characters. They were possibilities.

The word settled heavily inside Eden. Luna was the person he might have loved. Aria was the daughter he might have had. When he demanded to know why he met them at all, the Author answered that Eden had written himself toward them.

The hallway trembled violently. Looking upward, the Author muttered that they had already gone too far. Eden refused to stop. He wanted answers. Finally, the Author explained that if Luna and Aria had only been possibilities, then something else had made them real.

Pointing toward the ceiling, he revealed a crack spreading through reality. Beyond it, the enormous eye appeared once again. This time it wasn’t watching Eden. It was staring at Luna’s name. Then Aria’s. The Author’s voice dropped to a whisper as he revealed the truth.

"Someone read them."

Eden’s stomach tightened. "Who?"

The eye blinked. Instantly, the entire house vanished. Darkness swallowed everything, and a familiar voice echoed through the void. It was the voice from the final page.

"I did."

Eden stood frozen as the voice continued. He had written a possibility. The speaker had read it. And by reading it, they had made it real.

The darkness cracked apart. A figure stepped through. Eden’s heart stopped. It wasn’t a monster, a god, or an author. It was a woman. She had dark hair, a familiar smile, and tears already running down her face.

Before he could stop himself, Eden whispered her name.

"Luna."