Ramses stood in the middle of the street, eyes scanning the frozen figures around him. A man mid-stride, a mother caught in the act of comforting her crying child, a dog suspended mid-leap. The world remained still—but Ramses didn't.
After the dream, after the mirror, after the image of himself in that hospital bed—he had changed. Not physically, but at a soul level. The truth was no longer a distant whisper. He knew. This world wasn't real—not in the traditional sense. It was a chrysalis. And he was no longer trapped. He was transforming.
As he walked through the quiet city, a thought returned to him again and again:
What happens when I wake up?
Not "if," but "when." For the first time, hope wasn't a fragile flicker. It burned, steady and warm.
He passed by a park where a group of teenagers was frozen mid-laugh, holding smartphones, faces bright with joy. He stopped and studied them.
What would they think when time resumed and they saw him again? Would they remember him at all? Had his absence been noticed in the real world, or had time passed differently there?
He didn't know.
But one thing was clear now: the version of Ramses that would return to the world would not be the same man who had once struggled to get out of bed, haunted by depression and numbed by anxiety.
He had built himself here—from the ground up.
Now he started to imagine what that change could mean. Not just for him—but for everyone.
He found himself at the doorstep of his old college, the place he had once failed, the place that had filled him with shame. The glass doors were still broken from some long-forgotten riot. Papers drifted in the air, frozen in place.
He walked through the hallways with reverence, as though in a temple. His footsteps echoed—no students, no noise, no pressure.
"Someday," he whispered, "I'll walk these halls again. And I'll walk with pride."
In his mind, he pictured himself speaking to a classroom. Not as a student—but as a mentor. Not with insecurity—but with authority.
He imagined telling his story—about the breakdowns, the isolation, the pain, and then the transformation. He imagined sharing how stillness had saved him. How solitude had taught him more than any book ever could.
He pictured students leaning in, moved not by his eloquence but by the truth behind his words.
He smiled.
The world wouldn't remember the old Ramses. But the new one—they'd never forget.
He left the school behind and headed to his childhood neighborhood. The apartment complex still looked the same—gray, weathered, cramped. He stopped in front of his family's old door.
The door was cracked open, a frozen image of his mother reaching toward it. Her hand hovered inches from the handle, her face wearing a worried frown.
Ramses felt his chest tighten.
He hadn't seen her like this in so long. And suddenly he wondered—had she been by his hospital bed all this time? Had she cried herself to sleep, waiting for him to open his eyes?
He knelt beside her, even though she was frozen. He placed a hand over hers.
"I'm coming back, Mom," he whispered. "I promise. And when I do... I'll make you proud."
He imagined what it would be like to see her again. Really see her. To tell her that he was okay. That he had made peace with himself. That he was stronger now.
He pictured their kitchen filled with laughter, her scolding him for sleeping too late again, him teasing her about her cooking. Ordinary moments, once taken for granted, now sacred.
And he imagined his father, stoic as always, but with pride in his eyes as Ramses told him about everything he'd done during the freeze.
Maybe he would write a book. Maybe he would become a counselor or teacher. But whatever he did, he'd do it with purpose.
He would be a living ripple in the lives of others.
As he wandered the frozen world, this vision grew clearer: the ripple effect.
If he brought back what he had learned—resilience, mindfulness, strength, compassion—it would ripple into his family, into his community, into complete strangers.
He would tell others what no one told him when he needed it most: It's okay to fall apart. It's okay to start over.
That idea lit something in him.
He remembered the kindness of the stranger who once gave him a book on meditation. The gym coach who didn't give up on him even when Ramses gave up on himself. The friend who left messages on his phone long after Ramses had stopped replying.
Those were ripples too.
He wasn't the first to grow.
He wouldn't be the last.
He knelt in the center of the plaza and closed his eyes. The air felt different now—charged with potential. Like he was no longer a prisoner but a seed preparing to burst through the soil.
He focused inward and breathed.
In that breath, he imagined standing on a stage, sharing his journey with a crowd. He imagined publishing a memoir that saved a teenager from suicide. He imagined volunteering at shelters, telling people they mattered.
And in the midst of all this vision, one phrase repeated like a sacred rhythm:
You are not here for yourself alone.
Ramses opened his eyes, not with fear, but with urgency.
He didn't know when the world would unfreeze. But now, he wanted it to.
Not just to escape the silence—but to serve something greater.
He would carry this inner transformation back into a noisy, messy, beautiful world.
And just like a stone dropped into still water—his impact would ripple out in ways he could never fully measure.