The scream was a ringing echo in Silas's ears, far louder than the wailing sirens that now cut through the afternoon air. People crowded around the wrecked sedan, a mix of horror and relief on their faces. Lia stood beside him, her hand still gripping his arm, her eyes wide as she stared at the crumpled metal. No one had noticed the subtle, impossible shift. No one had seen him push.
"Oh my God," Lia whispered, her voice trembling. "It's a miracle."
Silas could only nod, his own heart still hammering against his ribs. He felt a profound sense of wrongness, not just from the car, but from his own hands, which still tingled with a phantom energy. It was a power he hadn't asked for, a tool his mind used without his permission. He was a craftsman of wood, not a manipulator of reality.
"Silas? You look pale," Lia said, her voice filled with concern. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I just… a bit shaken up," he stammered, his eyes avoiding hers. He was suddenly aware of how close they were, how comfortable he felt with her, and how dangerous that comfort had become. He was a lie, a flawed creation, a bug in a system he didn't know he'd written.
They walked away from the crowd, the sirens growing louder in the distance. When they reached his workshop, the familiar scent of sawdust no longer brought him comfort. It felt like a mask, a flimsy disguise for the monstrous thing he was becoming.
Alone inside, Silas stared at his hands, the same hands that had carved a hundred guitars. He picked up a small, perfectly square block of cedar and held it in his palm. He tried to feel that surge of energy again, tried to make the wood float. Nothing happened. He concentrated, willing it to move, but the block stayed stubbornly in his hand.
Frustration turned to cold, creeping dread. It wasn't a skill he could control. It was a reflex, an instinct. He was a gun that fired on its own. He dropped the wood and sank into his chair, running a hand through his hair. This wasn't a miracle. It was a flaw. And he was the source.
Later that evening, Lia stopped by again, this time with hot tea. She found him sitting in the dark, his tools untouched.
"You've been quiet," she said gently, setting the mugs on his workbench. "Are you sure you're okay? You haven't looked at me all night."
Silas took a deep breath, forcing a weak smile. "I'm fine. Just thinking about work."
"Work?" Lia's brow furrowed. "The way that car moved… it was so strange. The wind didn't even blow." Her eyes met his, and he could see a flicker of suspicion there, a flicker of intelligence that was already putting the pieces together. "You were standing right there, Silas. What did you see?"
He felt a pang of guilt. He had to lie. The truth was too terrifying, too alien. "I don't know. I guess it was a gust of wind at the perfect moment. Or maybe… maybe the engine caught just right." The words sounded hollow, even to his own ears.
Lia didn't push, but the silence that followed was heavy with her unspoken doubt. He had built his world on simple truths, and with one lie, he was already tearing it apart.
The next morning, the anomalies weren't subtle. A small tremor shook the ground, but it wasn't a natural earthquake. The ground didn't shift. It shimmered. For five full minutes, the pavement and the brick walls of the town hall seemed to ripple like water, distorting and blurring everything in sight. People ran screaming, their panicked faces a blur of color.
As Silas watched from his window, a new, more terrifying thought struck him. The anomalies weren't just random occurrences; they were a beacon.
He saw a black, unmarked sedan roll slowly down his street and park two houses away. The windows were tinted, and the vehicle had no license plate. A few minutes later, two men in dark suits got out. They were tall, well-built, and carried an air of calm authority that was completely out of place in their quiet town. They walked with a purpose, their eyes scanning every house.
He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that they weren't here for the shimmering ground. They were here for him. He was a bug in the system, and they were the exterminators.
He couldn't stay. He couldn't put Lia in danger. His life here, the one he had cherished, was over. He looked at his workshop, at the half-finished cello on his bench, at the mug Lia had left. He had to leave it all behind, before the world he had forgotten to make perfect came for him. He had to run.