Tai awoke to the faint grey of an overcast dawn, the light filtering through his thin curtains in a muted glow.

  It was morning, again, exactly like the one before.

  The alarm on his phone vibrated with a gentle buzz on the nightstand, but he had already been lying there awake, watching dust motes dance in the weak light. He let out a slow breath. Another day. In the silence of his small apartment, he felt like the world outside was holding its breath too, as if reluctant to begin again. Every movement felt deliberate and heavy—the quiet ritual of a life steeped in monotony.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat for a moment, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes until colors sparked behind closed lids. If he could, he'd stay in that half-dream state a little longer - where his hands shaped shining metals and bright gemstones, where creativity still flowed. But the memory of those dreams was a dull ache now, quickly dispelled by the reality of the day ahead. With a resigned sigh, Tai rose and dressed in the same plain shirts corporate offices find “professional” and slacks that filled his wardrobe, each one a copy of the next.

  His tie, a subdued blue, hung limp around his neck like an afterthought as he headed to the kitchen.

  The coffee machine gurgled to life, filling the air with the bitter-rich scent that was the only sharpness and ray of light in his morning routine. Tai cradled the warm mug, a holiday present from his mom with a picture of the family printed on it inside a heart shape, and stared blankly at the small corner of his living space he had set aside as a "workshop." It was more aspirational than functional - a cluttered desk with a cutting mat, a set of tiny precision tools, and a half-finished model of a wrought-iron figurine no larger than his thumb.

  Next to it, a small tin box held a scattering of beads, wires, and a pair of pliers. Remnants of his abandoned dream of jewelry design and metalsmithing. He allowed himself a sad, fond smile. In the mornings, when the world was quiet and the weight of practical expectations had not yet fully descended, he sometimes dared to imagine what life could have been if he had pursued that passion. But then the coffee was drained, the clock ticked forward, and those imaginings had to be folded away like origami secrets and tucked into a pocket of his heart.

  By the time Tai stepped out of his apartment building, the city had fully awakened around him. The sky remained a pale pewter grey, promising either rain or just an empty day without sun. He walked the three blocks to the metro station, joining a stream of other early commuters, each locked in their own private mornings. Faces glanced at phones as news tickers flashed uncertain updates about something in the atmosphere - some meteorite, some global "situation" that no one seemed to understand yet. A headline scrolled by on a giant screen over the station entrance: Authorities Continue to Monitor Atmospheric Phenomenon; No Immediate Danger. People walked on, coffee in hand, mostly indifferent or pretending to be.

  Tai noticed a couple holding hands a little too tightly, their eyes betraying a worry that their casual conversation tried to hide. There was fear, somewhere deep down, but daily life carried on as if momentum alone could ward off any catastrophe.

  On the train, Tai found a seat by the window. The glass reflected a tired young man with unruly black hair, a thin face, and eyes that always seemed a little sad and like they thinking of something else, something beyond.

  He often thought he looked like a supporting character in his own reflection - present, but never the focus. As the train rattled through its tunnels and emerged occasionally above ground, he let his mind wander. In his bag, next to the company-issued laptop, was a small velvet pouch. Inside that pouch was a tiny charm - a silver gear interlocked with a bronze heart - that he had crafted years ago. It was meant to be a gift for someone special, but he had never found the courage to give it. That someone was his best friend, Mei. He thumbed the edge of the pouch now, feeling the shape of the charm through the fabric, and closed his eyes in a moment of quiet yearning. Mei had been in his life since school days, always shining brightly in his world. She was one of the few who saw him, really saw him, yet even with her he felt like an extra in the grand story of her life. She was the outgoing one, the one everyone remembered at gatherings. Tai was the one who took the group photo and was then forgotten in the tag list.

  The train ride ended without event - just another part of the routine. Tai shuffled out with the crowd and made his way to the office tower, where he spent his days inputting numbers and managing trivial projects that never seemed to go anywhere. The elevator ride to the 14th floor was silent except for the hum of machinery and a tinny tune leaking from someone’s headphones. He glanced at his colleagues: they knew his name, they smiled at him politely, but none of them really knew him. How could they? He barely revealed anything beyond courteous nods and the occasional forced office small talk. It wasn’t that they disliked him—he was liked well enough, a pleasant presence that vanished from memory as soon as the moment passed.

  At his desk by the window, Tai logged into his computer and sipped the dregs of his coffee gone cold. His inbox was full of the usual unread emails: task updates, corporate newsletters, a note from his manager about an afternoon meeting. He clicked through them mechanically. Outside the window, the day remained sunless. He could see the city skyline, a jagged silhouette under low clouds. If that meteorite - or whatever it was - really did pose a threat, there was no sign of it here. But something in the air felt off. Perhaps it was just him, projecting his own sense of stagnation onto the world. Everything felt fragile and hollow today. He caught himself absently sketching a pattern in the margin of his notebook - a swirling design that looked almost like wings or flames. It was a reflex, a habit from old art classes and daydreams. When he realized, he quickly scribbled it out and returned to his spreadsheets, cheeks flushing with self-consciousness even though no one had seen.

  Late morning blurred into noon. Tai ate lunch alone at his desk. Around him, clusters of coworkers chatted about weekend plans, office gossip, and half-joking theories about the mysterious meteor.

  "Did you hear it's a piece of a comet? I read some blog saying it’s alien," one voice laughed.

  Another responded, "Oh please, the government said it's just a regular meteor that'll break apart harmlessly. They just like scaring us for no reason."

  "You’re naive if that’s what you think. You fall right into their trap! They’re always hiding the most crucial information from us!" a third person interrupted.

  The conversation died down. The group politely turned their attention elsewhere. No one liked the enthusiastic conspirator.

  Their tones were light, but Tai sensed the undercurrent of unease. He chewed his sandwich slowly, tasting nothing, ears tuned more to the cadence of their voices than the content. If people were afraid, they masked it with humor and normalcy. Tai didn’t join in; he rarely did. Instead, he scrolled through his phone - past cheerful photos his friends posted, past news articles contradicting each other about the sky.

  Impact Imminent? Scientists Divided.

  Officials Urge Calm as Investigations Continue.

  Eyewitnesses Claim “Creature” Sighted Amid Meteor Fragments.

  That last headline - he doubted it was even real. Probably fake news or a science fiction blog. He locked his phone and sighed, suddenly feeling heavier. It was getting hard to tell what was real and what was just overreaction these days.

  In the afternoon, his father called. Tai almost didn’t answer - his workload was minimal but he knew the call would stir emotions he'd rather keep at bay during work hours. Still, guilt pricked him and he picked up, whispering,

  "Hey Dad, I'm at work, can I call you later?"

  But his father’s concerned voice came through quietly,

  "I know, son. This will be quick. Did you see the latest briefing? They’re saying people should stay calm, maybe stay indoors tonight, just as a precaution. It’s probably nothing, but..." His father trailed off, the unspoken worry hanging between them.

  Tai’s heart softened; for all their differences, he knew his father cared in his own awkward way.

  "I saw, Dad. I’m sure it’s fine. Don’t worry about me," Tai replied gently.

  There was a pause, then the older man cleared his throat,

  "Alright. Just... call me if you need anything. And get some rest. You work too hard."

  A familiar pang of regret hit Tai then - the weight of unfulfilled expectations and dreams deferred. His father had always pushed him to be practical, to choose security over passion. It came from love, he knew, but it had steered Tai away from the workbench, the tools, and the jewels, away from the life he once yearned for.

  "I will. You take care, too," Tai said softly.

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  They hung up, and for a moment, Tai sat there, staring at the spreadsheet full of meaningless numbers. In the reflection of his monitor, he thought he saw a flicker of light behind him, but when he turned, it was just the overhead bulb blinking before steadying. Perhaps a power fluctuation - nothing more.

  Evening eventually arrived, signaled by the emptiness of the office rather than any sunset glow (the sun never did break through the clouds). Tai shut down his computer and stretched. He declined an invitation from a few well-meaning coworkers who occasionally asked him to join them for a drink. Tonight they didn't ask twice - they were eager to get home, maybe because of the news. Walking out of the building, Tai noted the hush in the air. The streets were a little less crowded than usual, an uneasy quiet riding on the coattails of dusk. He made his way to the metro station, the routine unchanged, yet everything felt different, as if the atmosphere itself were laden with anticipation or dread.

  The train back was half-empty. Opposite him sat an elderly woman who was knitting something with steady hands, her eyes distant. Nearby, a child leaned against his mother, clutching a toy spaceship and making quiet whooshing sounds as if to comfort himself. Tai offered a small smile to the mother, who smiled back distractedly.

  Everyone was absorbed in their own world of worries. A chime from the train’s PA system announced an update: due to "current events," service might be suspended early tonight as a precaution. The voice was calm, rehearsed. Tai closed his eyes and rested his head against the window. For a moment, he imagined he felt a faint tremor in the ground, like a far-off thunder. But perhaps it was just the train on its tracks, or his mind playing tricks.

  He pulled out his phone again and resumed the video that had quietly gone viral. A late-night talk show clip: the host leaning back with his usual amused smirk, entertaining a guest who looked half-scarecrow, half-professor. The man’s voice rasped through the speakers, dry and deliberate.

  “They were not meteors,” he said. “They were fragments… echoes, from the wake of something ancient. We are not witnessing an impact - we are feeling the ripple of a chase that has lasted longer than our sun has burned.”

  A bold headline crawled beneath the screen: “Cosmic Predators or Delusions? Fringe Expert Speaks Out on ‘Celestial Pursuit.’”

  The host chuckled, clearly enjoying the ratings more than the theory. Tai smirked too - it was ridiculous, obviously. Yet something in the phrasing, the ripple of a chase, stirred a strange curiosity in him. It was the kind of story he used to love in D&D campaigns: cryptic, cosmic, doomed.

  The overhead lights dimmed briefly. A subtle flicker. Then a long, low hum vibrated through the floor of the carriage. Tai glanced up. Nothing had changed. No one else reacted. He returned to the video, thumb resting just above the pause button, and only then realized he hadn’t taken a breath in several seconds.

  Back in his neighborhood, a light drizzle had started, speckling the pavement and releasing the scent of wet concrete. Tai walked home, his shoulders hunched against the chill, the straps of his backpack were clutched tight. Each streetlight he passed hummed softly, illuminating the misty rain in cones of pale gold. Normally, he would head straight into his apartment, heat up a simple dinner, and maybe spend an hour fiddling with his miniature projects or playing videogames before bed. But tonight he hesitated.

  There was a restlessness under his skin, an urge to do something - anything - out of the ordinary. Maybe it was the talk of meteors and cosmic oddities, or the way the world felt like it was holding its breath. Instead of going directly inside, Tai found himself walking past his building, down the block toward a small park that edged the neighborhood. It was little more than a fenced square of grass and a few trees, a place where children played on bright mornings and teenagers lingered under the lone oak at night. Now it was deserted, glistening with rain. He took shelter under a bus stop awning adjacent to the park and watched the raindrops pepper the empty street.

  The city sounds around him seemed to fade, leaving only the patter of rain. In that moment of solitude, Tai felt the weight of his loneliness - the empty apartment waiting, the quiet resignation of another day gone by without change. He closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath he didn’t know he was holding.

  He thought of Mei, wondered what she was doing tonight - likely at home as well, or perhaps out with other friends, laughing and living life while he watched from the sidelines. He thought of his father, probably sitting by the radio or TV, absorbing every piece of news and worrying silently.

  He thought of the childhood he’d left behind, building Lego castles and drawing fantastical creatures, believing in magic and heroes before the world taught him to be practical.

  Back then, life had felt wide open. The future shimmered with wonder, and anything seemed possible. He remembered the cozy kitchen glow of late Saturday afternoons, his mother humming softly as she pulled a tray of freshly baked cookies from the oven, the room suddenly filled with the rich smell of roasted butter and sweet, sweet, warm spices. She always baked cookies - every time the big glass jar on the kitchen counter was nearly empty, even when money was tight. She’d smile warmly, offering him the first one while wrapping him in a soft, flour-dusted hug.

  "Whatever path you choose," she once told him, brushing the hair from his face, "I’ll be proud of you - as long as it’s truly yours."

  She meant it. Even when it clashed with his father’s expectations, she stood by him.

  She had passed too early - some cruel disease with a name too long and clinical for someone so gentle. The world had lost a little color after that. He rarely let himself think about her anymore. It hurt too much.

  Now, with only the rain for company and a screen full of nonsense conspiracy theories, he felt that ache resurface - quiet and deep.

  There had once been magic. He was sure of it.

  But now it was all paychecks and subscription renewals and rent and facing life. Real life. The kind too boring, too normal to be told in stories.

  A sudden stillness pulled him from his thoughts. The rain... had stopped. Tai opened his eyes. The rain had indeed halted mid-air. Droplets hung suspended like a swarm of liquid diamonds caught in a photograph. The air itself was utterly still; no breeze, no distant car engines, no murmurs of city life. Tai’s heart lurched. It was as if time had paused on the inhale. He stood straight, stepping out from under the awning. A droplet brushed his cheek, rolling slowly, unnaturally slowly, down to his jaw. Everything was silent.

  In the center of the park, something glowed. At first, Tai thought his eyes were tricking him—perhaps a reflection of some streetlight. But the glow intensified, a gentle blue-white radiance pulsating softly near the base of the old oak tree. Drawn by equal parts curiosity and a strange calm that overrode fear, Tai found the gate unlatched and walked into the park. Each step felt like walking through a dream; the world remained frozen around him. The glow beckoned.

  Upon reaching the oak, Tai saw the source: embedded in the wet grass was a shard of something like crystal, about the length of his hand, glowing with that eerie soft light. It looked like a piece of a star, fallen and forgotten. He knelt down, breath caught in his throat. The shard was unlike anything he'd seen - smooth yet jagged, humming with a faint sound almost like a distant chord of music. His fingers hovered over it. In the stillness, he felt more awake than he ever had in the dull blur of his daily life.

  Tai gently picked up the shard. It was surprisingly warm, and as he cradled it in his palms, a subtle vibration coursed up his arms. Somewhere deep in his mind, or perhaps outside of it, he heard a whisper. He could not discern words, only the impression of meaning: an offer, a question, a choice. Images flashed behind his eyes - a sky full of falling stars, a great shadow looming, and himself standing at a crossroads. His heart pounded, yet he felt no urge to drop the shard. Instead, an uncanny serenity enveloped him, as if this moment had been waiting for him all his life.

  He understood, without understanding how, that this was a pact. A quiet vow sealed in silence. Tai swallowed, his mouth dry. He had always felt like the side character, the one living on the periphery of importance. But here, now, the universe itself seemed to be looking at him - asking something of him. Did he want things to remain as they were? The dull, aching monotony? Or would he dare step into something unknown?

  A tremble ran through his fingers. Tai closed his eyes, a single tear escaping and sliding down his face - perhaps for the life he lived until this instant, for all its sorrow and small beauties. Then, with a steadiness that surprised him, he whispered, "Yes." He wasn't even sure what he was agreeing to, only that in his heart, a spark had been kindled, and he could not let it die.

  The moment he spoke, the shard's glow flared, not blinding but bright, all-encompassing. Tai felt warmth flood through his chest, an electric surge of emotion and energy and something else indefinable. The suspended raindrops quivered, then fell all at once, pelting the ground in a sudden chorus. The sounds of the city returned in a rush of distant horns and murmurs. Time had resumed, and with it, Tai's world shifted.

  He stood up.

  The shard had changed.

  Its glow faded as if embarrassed, then blinked out entirely. In his hand now was nothing more than a smooth, damp stone - irregular, ordinary, and dull. Tai blinked at it, turning it over with numb fingers. No hum. No warmth. Just a cold pebble with a chipped edge.

  Had it all been in his head?

  The suspended raindrops, the frozen silence, the glowing crystal - all of it?

  He looked around. The park gate was closed behind him. A car passed in the distance. A breeze stirred the branches of the oak. Everything looked… normal. Mundane. Real. Too real.

  "Great," he muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. "I’m standing in the rain talking to rocks now."

  With a small, humorless laugh, he slipped the stone into his pocket, half-expecting it to vanish like a dream. It didn’t. It just sat there - small, heavy, disappointing.

  By the time he reached his apartment, the tiredness hit him like a wave. The kind of tired that wasn’t just physical but soul-deep - the fatigue of feeling foolish, of hoping for something impossible, of chasing wonder and finding wet shoes and a dumb rock.

  He didn’t bother trying to be productive. He ordered takeout - splurging on the overpriced artisan pizza he liked, the one with figs, arugula, and walnuts, and too much cheese. A small rebellion against disappointment. While he waited, he slipped into an old hoodie, turned on his console, and sank into the familiar hum of loading screens.

  A video game. That was exactly what he needed. Something with rules, with progress bars and quests and clear wins. Something where the dragons were real and magic didn’t pretend to vanish the moment you reached for it.

  Tai took a bite of pizza, let the music of the game wash over him, and let go. No strange shards. No frozen rain. Just him, his couch, and a controller.

  It was, honestly, a great way to end a weird day.