"You all better brush up on your myths this time around—they'll carry quite the weightage on the final," Professor Thomason's stern voice ricocheted off the high, cracked ceiling of the lecture hall. The sound seemed to gather in the corners, waking even the most determined sleepers. It was the sort of voice that demanded attention, whether you intended to give it or not.
At the very back of the room, sprawled across his desk, Erel barely stirred. A tangle of stark white earphones slipped from his ears, trailing the fading strains of Chopin's Ballade No. 4. The final notes, wild and unrestrained, dissolved into the stale classroom air, leaving behind only the muffled clatter of notebooks and the scratch of pens.
For Erel, the music had been a portal—a shield against the monotony of lectures. In his dreams, the world was a swirling landscape of color and sound, untethered from the rigid logic of university life. The crescendo was the last thing he felt before reality tugged him back.
"That's all for today. You're free to go," Professor Thomason declared, snapping his leather-bound notebook closed with finality.
The room erupted. Chairs scraped against battered linoleum; students rushed to pack up, conversations rising in fractured waves. The old building, with its faded chalkboards and sun-bleached posters, always seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at the end of class.
Amid the chaos, a young woman threaded her way through the departing crowd. Her steps were purposeful, her arms full of books. She stopped beside Erel, eyeing his slumped form with a mixture of amusement and exasperation.
"There's no helping him, honestly," she muttered, shaking her head as she reached out and flicked the back of Erel's head.
"Sleeping beauty. Class is over."
Erel groaned, shifting as if surfacing from deep water. He blinked against the harsh overhead lights and slowly sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His hair stuck out in wild directions, and his face bore the soft creases of a makeshift nap.
"Already over?" he mumbled, his voice thick with lingering dreams.
The young woman—Mira—arched an eyebrow as she gathered her notes with practiced ease. "What do you mean 'already over'? Some of us actually listen. That was two hours of Thomason dissecting Ovid and mythic archetypes while you drooled on your sleeve."
Erel managed a lopsided grin, shrugging off her scolding as easily as a coat. "Yet I'll probably outscore you," he replied, a familiar, cocky glint in his eyes. Confidence came as easily to him as breathing, and he wielded it like a shield.
Mira rolled her eyes, but the affection beneath her annoyance was unmistakable. She gave his head another light swat. "Bastard. You'd better hurry or you'll be late for work—again. Lyra's going to have your head if you keep this up."
Sudden realization flashed across Erel's face. He bolted upright, nearly sending his chair skidding, and began stuffing his things into his battered backpack with frantic urgency. "Shit, she's going to kill me."
"I really hope she does," Mira said, smirking as she watched him scramble. "Maybe she'll finally cure you of your chronic tardiness."
Erel shot her a crooked grin as he slung his bag over one shoulder. "Catch you later!" With that, he darted through the thinning crowd, leaving Mira shaking her head and stifling a laugh.
The corridors outside the classroom pulsed with late-afternoon life. It was just past four, and the sun spilled in through long windows, painting the walls with pale yellow light. Leaves rustled outside, their shadows flickering across the ancient stonework like restless spirits. The university itself felt alive—its old bones humming with the energy of thousands of students, its air thick with the scent of ink, old paper, and distant, wafting coffee.
Groups of students clustered in pockets, their voices rising and falling as they shared stories, argued over assignments, or simply basked in the small victory of another class completed. Erel wove through them, his strides long and purposeful. Outside, the air was crisp with autumn. The wind carried the faint, bittersweet smell of decaying leaves and the promise of coming rain. There was a peculiar heaviness today—a subtle distortion that warped the light and made the shadows dance at the edges of his vision.
Erel noticed it in passing: the way the sunlight seemed to ripple as if seen through water, the odd shimmer that occasionally flickered across the quad. He dismissed it as a trick of the atmosphere, a side effect of too much Chopin and not enough sleep. There were more pressing concerns—namely, his job at the Hume Café and the wrath of his aunt, Lyra.
The route to the café was familiar: down the main avenue, past the statue of the university's founder (a dour man with a pigeon perpetually perched atop his head), across the plaza where street musicians played for spare change, and finally, around the block to a quiet street lined with sycamores. The Hume Café was nestled between a used bookstore and a florist, its brass sign polished to a soft gleam.
Erel paused for a moment outside, catching his breath. The café's windows glowed with warm lamplight, beckoning him in. He pushed open the door, and the bell chimed—a gentle, welcoming sound.
Inside, the world changed. The air was rich with the scent of fresh coffee and baking bread, undercut by a trace of vanilla and cinnamon. Dark wooden tables, each worn smooth by years of elbows and laughter, filled the space. Sunlight slanted through the front windows, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazily above shelves lined with mismatched mugs and battered philosophy books. Behind the counter, the espresso machine hissed and gurgled, an old friend in its own right.
"Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence," called a voice from behind the counter. Lyra, Erel's aunt, stood with her sleeves rolled up, her dark hair twisted into a bun that had long since surrendered to a few rebellious strands. Her eyes sparkled with a mixture of mock sternness and genuine affection.
"Traffic was a nightmare. Absolute gridlock from here to the quad," Erel replied, slipping behind the counter and grabbing his faded apron.
Lyra snorted, arching an eyebrow. "Traffic in your dreams, maybe. Mira texted—said you were sleeping through Thomason's lecture again."
Erel feigned outrage as he tied his apron. "Mira's a traitor. And Thomason's been recycling the same material since last semester. If I hear about Plato's cave one more time, I'll start digging my own."
Lyra handed him a damp cloth to wipe down tables, her lips twitching with amusement. "The fact you know what he was covering proves my point, smartass. Now go earn your keep."
The afternoon lull had settled in. A couple by the window laughed quietly over shared pastries. An older man in a tweed jacket sat with a newspaper, glasses perched precariously on his nose, while two students huddled over laptops, their attention more on each other than their screens. The café felt like an island in the city's current—a place of slow comfort and gentle order amid the world's rush.
Erel worked the floor with practiced familiarity, clearing mugs, resetting tables, exchanging smiles and pleasantries. The rhythm of the place grounded him, each task a small ritual. Yet in the quiet moments between customers, his mind drifted back to the strange distortions he'd seen in the air.
Lyra joined him as he wiped down a table in the corner. She kept her voice low, her eyes scanning the café. "Did you notice anything odd on your way here?"
Erel paused, glancing up. "You mean the weird shimmering? I thought it was just a heat haze or something."
Lyra's expression grew serious, the lines around her eyes deepening. "The forecast mentioned paradox plane activity tonight. Low-level, but close. They're predicting small rifts—nothing major, but enough to notice."
A chill pricked at the back of Erel's neck. The words "paradox plane" had always struck him with a mix of fascination and dread. Thirteen years ago, a paradox plane had claimed his parents—spaces where reality itself could fold, twist, or break apart, leaving nothing but questions in their wake. Some called them nature's riddles; for Erel, they were scars that never quite healed.
"They're saying it'll pass by tomorrow morning," Lyra continued, her gaze gentle but steady. "Just… take the long way home tonight. Avoid the river. That's where they expect the worst activity."
"Thanks," Erel muttered, his voice a shade too tight. He scrubbed at the tabletop with unnecessary force, fighting to keep his thoughts from spiraling.
Lyra placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "I wouldn't bring it up if it wasn't important. I know you hate this stuff."
"It's fine. I appreciate the warning," he replied, forcing his voice to sound casual. The truth was, each mention of paradox planes felt like picking at an old scab. He remembered the news reports, the whispered condolences, the way Lyra had knelt beside him to explain that his parents would never come home. The world had felt unstable ever since—a place where even the rules of reality could shift without warning.
Lyra tried to lighten the mood, her features softening. "You know, your mother always said paradox planes were like riddles from the universe—places where reality asks questions of itself."
A shadow of a smile crossed Erel's face. Memories of his mother were fragile and rare, but cherished. "I don't remember her saying that."
"You were so little. She was a dreamer. Your father was the practical one, always double-checking the data. She'd go chasing the abstract while he mapped the concrete."
"Is that why they went into that plane?" The question slipped out before he could catch it.
Lyra hesitated, her eyes clouding with memory. "Partly. They thought they'd found a stable one—a pocket reality you could actually chart. Your mother led the team. She believed in finding answers, even to impossible questions."
Erel absorbed this quietly, a new facet added to the blurred silhouette of his parents. Even now, years later, details emerged in small increments—each one a piece of a puzzle that would never be whole.
Lyra squeezed his shoulder once more, then let go. "Enough heavy talk. Coffee's not going to serve itself."
The rest of Erel's shift passed in the gentle routine of the café's closing hours. He took orders, made drinks, refilled sugar jars, and exchanged the small pleasantries that made regulars feel at home. He watched the sun dip lower, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floor. The strange heaviness outside lingered in the back of his mind, but the café's warm lights and familiar rhythms made it feel distant—almost unreal.
By eight o'clock, only one customer remained: a student hunched over her laptop, headphones in, mouthing along to lyrics only she could hear. Lyra wiped her hands on a cloth and approached Erel at the counter.
"You can head out," she said, her tone brisk but kind. "I'll close up tonight."
"You sure?" Erel asked, though he was already untying his apron.
"Positive. I want you home before things get weird. And remember—"
"Stay away from the river," Erel finished, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "I remember."
He fetched his backpack from the back, paused to give Lyra a quick hug, and stepped out into the night. The air had cooled, the city's daytime clamor replaced by the hush of evening. Streetlights flickered on, their yellow halos illuminating patches of sidewalk and leaving the spaces in between in deep shadow.
Erel kept to the main roads, avoiding the shortcut along the river as Lyra had advised. The commercial district was quieter now, most shops shuttered and dark. A few late-night cafés glowed invitingly, their windows fogged and filled with the gentle murmur of conversation. The wind carried scraps of distant music, mingling with the faint scent of rain on concrete.
Yet something felt… off. The air was thicker than usual, almost syrupy. The ripples he'd noticed earlier had grown stronger, distorting the streetlights so they shimmered and bent like reflections in a disturbed pond. The Imaginarium—a thin, invisible margin of reality where paradox planes could bleed through—was clearly active tonight. A low pressure built behind Erel's ears, the sensation not unlike descending rapidly in an airplane.
He muttered to himself, "Just atmospheric distortion. That's all."
But his pace quickened. Instinct told him to get home as soon as possible, to put solid walls and familiar routines between himself and the shifting world outside.
At the corner of Maple and Fifth, Erel stopped short. No matter how he tried to retrace his route, he kept ending up by the river—a place he'd gone out of his way to avoid. The water was eerily still, reflecting the city lights in perfect, undisturbed lines. The sidewalks around him looped impossibly, folding back on themselves so that every turn brought him once again to the river's edge.
Confused, Erel pulled out his phone, hoping for some grounding in technology. The screen glowed with static, refusing to display a map or even the time. The sense of pressure behind his ears grew until it was a dull, insistent throb.
The air around him seemed to crystallize, refracting the city lights into fractured rainbows. The Imaginarium shimmered visibly, and Erel's breath caught in his throat.
No.
A fissure appeared in the air—subtle at first, then widening into a vertical seam shot through with shifting colors. Through it, he glimpsed a place that couldn't exist: a stately Victorian mansion perched atop a rolling green hill, starkly out of place amid the city's concrete and glass.
Erel's panic surged. He tried to turn, to run, but his legs moved of their own accord, carrying him inexorably toward the tear. His mind raced—calculating, analyzing, cataloging every detail—yet none of it helped. He could observe, but not act.
"Stop," he whispered, but his mouth barely formed the word. It felt as if he were watching his own body from a great distance, powerless.
At the edge of the tear, reality bent. The world fragmented around him, and he fell—not down, but in every direction at once, tumbling through layers of possibility and memory.
For one timeless instant, Erel felt nothing but the raw, electric rush of being unmoored.
Then, silence.