Dreams. Zal had rarely experienced anything called a dream for years: either nightmares, or absolute blackness until waking. But this time, he dreamed. A hazy, but real dream. His mind began to conjure.

  He saw a house he had never seen before, not in the past, not in the present. A small, clay house, remote. He moved with difficulty. He placed his foot on the ground. The ground was clayey and damp. He slowly walked toward the house. The sound of trickling water came from within. He opened the door, not out of fear of a nightmare, but out of fear of hope.

  A creaking sound.

  Inside, there was no blood, no fire, no sound of gunfire. His family was there. Mother, father, sister, grandfather. All of them, alive and well.

  He ran to them. He just wanted a few moments, even if false, of peace with them. He hugged his mother and father tight. Kissed his sister on the cheek. He wept and sobbed in his grandfather's embrace—a sob that had dried up in his chest for years.

  The scene went black.

  "Sometimes the heart, before facing the unknown, witnesses a final preparation: a last visit with what you have lost. Not for solace, but to remind you of the price you must pay again."

  His eyes opened slowly. Not fully awake, but tears streamed from the corners of his eyes, warm and alive. He allowed himself to calm, for his grief—this time not of poison, but of a pure sorrow—to subside. This event was worse than a hundred nightmares—because it flaunted a lost truth—and yet, better; because it temporarily soothed an old wound.

  As he lay there, a familiar, dry tickle began to climb his throat. He tried to swallow it, to push it back into the wet furnace of his chest, but it was insistent. The cough, when it came, was a harsh, rattling sound that bent him double on the thin mattress. It was a brutal reminder: even in moments of tender memory, his body remained a traitor.

  He rose slowly, his chest aching from the convulsion, and opened the window to change the air of the room, which smelled of solitude and sickness. He thought of yesterday. Of Adam's words. Of that carriage.

  "How foolish," he muttered, his voice scraped raw. "Place a paper on the ground and a carriage is summoned? Horses? More believable. What do I know… maybe I really am from another world. Maybe I am walking a century and a half into a future built from the ash of my own myths."

  He had to stop thinking. He put on his work clothes and went downstairs.

  Adam greeted him with a usual hello.

  "I'm fine. And you?" Zal replied, the lie automatic.

  "I'm fine too. Hey Zal, go get a few beers for us from the storeroom. We're out."

  "Storeroom? We don't have a storeroom."

  Adam gave him a meaningful look. "Then where do we keep our wine and beer? Come, I'll show you."

  Zal followed him. Adam went under the staircase and ran his hand along the wall until he found a door where it was almost invisible. Hidden and stiff.

  "Hurry, go inside and get the beers."

  Zal ducked his head and entered absolute darkness. The storeroom, contrary to expectation, was not small. It was a forgotten space within the city's stone foundations. And he had forgotten a candle.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The moment the darkness swallowed him, his lungs tightened in protest, a reflexive panic at the enclosed, dusty air. He stifled a cough, feeling it burn behind his breastbone. Then, the Thread around his wrist emitted a light—a faint, dim light, the color of dead amber, but enough to push back the shadows of the storeroom. Zal stared at his wrist in astonishment. This was not a reaction. This was service. As if the Thread knew what he needed. In that faint light, he saw a few beer bottles on a rotten wooden shelf. When he took the bottles in hand, the light faded, as if its duty was done.

  "The tools of fate only reveal themselves when they wish to be used. The Thread was learning to be a better servant. Or perhaps, it was preparing its owner for a greater role."

  When he returned with the bottles, Adam laughed. "How did you find them down there? Why didn't you take a candle? I was about to bring you one. Your eyes are sharp, huh!"

  Zal just shook his head, a motion that stirred another faint itch in his throat. He couldn't explain. Not yet.

  The sound of the tavern door rang again. The day passed with the coming and going of patrons. Each trip from table to bar, each laden tray, was a small test of endurance. A deep, wet cough seized him once as he poured a drink, forcing him to turn away, his shoulders hunched, as he swallowed the phlegm back down—a secret, shameful transaction with his own decay.

  When night fell and Adam locked the door, Zal was so utterly drained that his legs trembled. Adam, seeing him falter, simply hooked an arm under his shoulder and half-carried him up the stairs.

  "Just one more day, friend," Adam whispered as he pulled the blanket over him, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Just one more day."

  ---

  Zal floated in the space between sleep and wakefulness—in a realm he controlled, but didn't know if it was a dream or a nightmare. His mind, like a merciless device, was processing possibilities.

  What question? What question could turn this dice in my favor?

  If I request… a tool on the path of science and wisdom? Maybe I can slowly change the whole affair to my advantage. But what tool? I need to see my current status.

  "Strategy is born from the ruthless listing of one's poverty. Zal was counting: a foreign world, a lack of connections, a terminal illness. He wanted to ask a monster of knowledge for answers to his personal accounts."

  My status:

  1. I'm in a strange world.

  2. I know almost no one.

  3. I've lost all my family.

  4. I have an illness, seems incurable. A constant, grinding pain. A thief of breath. The one companion that followed me between worlds.

  Okay, let's see.

  With these conditions, I can make a few requests.

  First, I can request a cure, or its solution. To breathe freely. To not feel this clawing in my chest with every thought of the future.

  Second, I can request to return.

  Third, I can request a book from it about this world's history.

  No, not just history. About everything in this world.

  About the laws of the continents.

  Everything in general should be in it. Knowledge is armor. It's the only armor I've ever had.

  Hmm, now that I think about it, I can ask for all of it and see which it can answer. But asking how to return to my own world… probably not a good idea. It shouldn't find out I'm not from this world.

  So better to ask those two questions: one, a cure for my illness.

  The other, that book or something like it that gives me this information.

  A sharp, stitching pain in his side—a familiar warning from his overworked lungs—collapsed the mental space. He awoke with a gasp, his body already trembling with the aftershock of the imagined effort. The reality of his physical frailty was the cage around all his grand plans.

  He changed his clothes and went to Adam. Adam was washing dishes.

  Seeing Zal, he greeted him and said, "Looks like you're stressed for tomorrow. If the stress is for tomorrow, don't worry. Guests of the White Spire always return safely. No one has ever been injured. Anyway, the servants of the White Spire are always known for their discipline, hard work, and religiosity. Don't worry about that." Adam paused, his eyes lingering on the faint sheen of sweat on Zal's pale forehead. "Have you thought about what to ask?"

  Zal said quietly, trying to keep his breath even, "Yeah, I finally reached a few questions."

  "Okay, by the way Adam, what is that 'Sage' in our story like as a person?"

  Adam turned off the water, his demeanor shifting. "I don't know much myself. Those who went there never wrote about his personal ethics…" He dried his hands slowly. "Because after the first question he answers, you don't meet him anymore. You meet the system. So choose that first question wisely. It's the only one that comes from the source. The rest…" He shrugged. "The rest are answered by echoes."

  The implication hit Zal like a blow to his weakened chest. Only one real question. He felt a cough building, a panicked, tight feeling. He fought it down, his eyes watering with the strain. This changed everything. It wasn't a negotiation. It was a single bullet, and he had to choose his target: his dying body, or his lost, searching mind.

  Zal merely nodded, the weight of the decision pressing down on his already labored breathing. "Okay, thanks again for the info."

  The sound of the door came again. This time, the sound of more people arrived. Seemed like a busy day.

  Zal started working, moving through the hours like a ghost, each interaction, each smile he forced, a drain on his dwindling reserves. The pain in his chest was a low, persistent fire now, fanned by anxiety.

  Slowly, the day passed and we reached the end of the night. Zal, in his room staring at the ceiling, was overcome by sleep, and the final day before the meeting ended. As he drifted off, his hand found the Thread on his wrist. It was cold, but solid. The only part of him that didn't feel like it was crumbling.

  "And so, the final night of peace—a peace built on a foundation of denial, frail flesh, and childish planning—came to an end. Zal went to bed with an illusion: the illusion that he could bargain with a monster of knowledge. Tomorrow, he would learn that some beings do not bargain. They only… accept or consume. And the first thing they consume is your certainty."