The world flickered again that morning. Ramses had been walking through a shopping district when all at once the still mannequins inside a clothing store came alive. A clerk sneezed, a cash register rang, a woman laughed while holding up a dress to her friend. The scene was so ordinary it felt sacred.
Then freeze.
Everything locked back into silence.
Ramses stood there staring at the frozen figures, chest tight. The laughter that had just filled the air was gone. He raised his hands, trembling, and pressed them against the glass.
I want this back, he thought. I want it so badly.
But wanting it didn't erase the fear.
Because what if he wasn't strong enough to carry the man he had become into that moving world?
Back at his apartment, Ramses dropped onto the floor and closed his eyes. Meditation had become his anchor in this timeless prison. Whenever doubt gnawed at him, whenever loneliness pressed too heavily, he returned to silence. But today, the silence wasn't peaceful. It was sharp, restless.
He forced himself to breathe.
"In… out… in… out…"
His body was steadier than before, but his mind whirled.
What am I really afraid of?
The answer came quickly: rejection.
He pictured his family's faces—his father, proud but stern; his mother, soft but weary; his siblings, who had once looked at him with disappointment. Would they believe he had changed, or would they see only the failures of his past? Would his new muscles, new mindset, new discipline matter to them, or would it all vanish the moment they remembered who he used to be?
His breath hitched.
What if they look at me the same way they always did? What if I can't prove it? What if I'm just pretending?
The meditation deepened, carrying him inward. He imagined himself standing in a dark room, a single candle flickering at his feet. Shadows loomed across the walls, stretching tall and menacing. Each shadow was a fear.
One whispered: You'll never keep this up. The freeze gave you strength, but the real world will strip it away.
Another hissed: You're still the same loser you always were. They'll laugh the moment they see you try to be different.
And the loudest shadow leaned close, its breath hot in his ear: Change is temporary. You'll always go back to who you really are.
Ramses clenched his fists in the vision. His chest rose and fell in sharp bursts. For a moment, the shadows felt overwhelming.
But then, something shifted.
He remembered the countless days he had woken up in this frozen world, dragging himself to push-ups, squats, runs. No one had been watching. No applause, no validation. Just him—choosing to try.
He remembered nights of reading, filling his mind with knowledge instead of distractions. Journaling his pain until his hand cramped. Sitting alone on rooftops, refusing to collapse beneath the weight of silence.
No one had forced him. No one had praised him.
He had chosen.
That was real.
In the vision, Ramses stood tall, facing the shadows. His voice echoed in the dark room:
"I did this. Alone. Not for them, not for anyone. For me."
The candlelight flared, pushing the shadows back.
"I may fear failing. I may fear rejection. But I am not that man anymore. The freeze didn't change me—I changed me. And if I did it once, I can do it again."
The shadows hissed and shrank, curling into corners, until the room brightened.
Ramses opened his eyes.
The apartment was still silent, the world still frozen, but his chest felt lighter. His fear wasn't gone—it never would be—but it no longer ruled him.
He rose to his feet and went to the mirror. His reflection stared back at him, calm and steady.
"I'll carry you," he whispered to the man in the glass. "Into their world, into their eyes. Even if they doubt me, I won't doubt myself."
Later, Ramses returned to the park where he had once written letters to his younger self. He sat on the same bench, journal balanced on his knee, pen in hand. The pigeons were frozen again, mid-flight, but he could still feel the echo of their wings from when time had briefly moved.
He began to write:
Fear is the chain I've always carried. Fear of failure. Fear of rejection. Fear of being nothing. But maybe fear isn't the enemy—it's the reminder. Fear tells me what matters. If I'm afraid of losing this growth, it means it's real. It means I care. And if I care, I'll fight for it.
He stopped, tapping the pen against the page, and then underlined the last sentence.
I will fight for it.
As the "day" ended, Ramses climbed his rooftop once again. The city glowed beneath him, fractured and still, with occasional ripples of motion teasing him from afar. He sat cross-legged and breathed, letting the weight of his fear settle without crushing him.
For the first time, he felt something unusual in his chest—not the absence of fear, but a strange partnership with it.
Maybe fear wasn't here to destroy him. Maybe it was here to sharpen him. To remind him that what he stood to lose was worth everything.
He tilted his head back to the sky. The stars flickered faintly, alive for only a moment before pausing again.
Ramses smiled, faint but steady.
"I'll be ready," he whispered. "Even if I'm afraid… I'll be ready."
The silence didn't answer, but inside, Ramses felt his own reply.
For the first time, his fear wasn't an enemy.
It was a compass.