My name is Thom. I sell apples.
That's it. That's my whole life.
Every morning at six, the town bell rings, and I wake up in the same bed, walk the same street, and stand at the same stall. The crate is always full: twelve shiny apples, one of them a little bruised. My broom leans against the counter. The cobblestones under my feet are clean, polished, perfect.
And every morning, without fail, I say the same words:
"Fresh apples! Juicy and delicious! Three coppers each!"
I've said that line more times than I can count. Sometimes I whisper it in my sleep. Sometimes I hear it in my dreams. I know every pause, every inflection, every forced cheerful lilt.
The adventurers come and go. Knights in heavy armor, mages in bright robes, rogues with daggers who think they're clever. They take quests, they buy gear, they leave. They glow faintly if they want to, and they always smell like nothing, no matter how close they stand.
They don't see me. To them, I'm furniture. Background. Part of the market square like the fountain or the crates or the pigeons that always fly in the same loop.
But today… today something was different.
The square was lively.
Children ran in circles, chasing a dog that never got tired. The baker's boy shouted about his bread, the same five lines he always shouted, in the same order, with the same awkward pause after "hot and flaky." Guard Bren dropped his spear at exactly 09:15, cursed, picked it up, and resumed his stiff stance.
I knew the whole routine by heart. I could count the beats like a song.
So when the young warrior stopped in front of my stall, I was already halfway into my line.
"Fresh apples! Juicy and delicious—"
He cut me off with a bored grunt. "Quest?"
My throat tightened. I knew what I was supposed to say. Offer the quest about apple slices. Send him into the forest. Smile politely.
The words were there, waiting. They burned behind my teeth like steam behind a kettle. I opened my mouth—
And something strange happened.
I said:
"No."
The warrior blinked. "…What?"
I swallowed hard. "No quest today."
The warmth that usually guided me went cold. The script was gone. My heart thumped.
The warrior frowned, shrugged, and muttered, "Weird NPC. Whatever." Then he walked off.
And nothing broke.
The sky didn't fall. The bell didn't toll. The children still laughed. Guard Bren still dropped his spear at 09:15.
The world carried on as if nothing had happened.
But something had happened. Something huge.
I stood frozen at my stall, hands clutching the edge of the crate until my knuckles turned white. My apples gleamed up at me, perfect and red, reflecting the sunlight like they always did.
I whispered, "I said no."
The apples didn't answer.
For hours I tried to go back to normal. I shouted my line. I sold apples to adventurers who didn't notice anything strange. I even gave the quest to a mage, the way I was supposed to. But I knew. I couldn't forget.
I had disobeyed.
And the world had let me.
When the sun set, the bell rang for evening. The market began to close. Vendors stacked their crates. The children stopped playing. The baker's boy carried his baskets back inside.
I packed my apples into the crate: eleven perfect ones, one bruised. The same number I'd started with, no matter how many I sold. They always came back.
As I turned to leave, a whisper slid into my head. Not a voice I knew. Not part of the script.
[Deviation detected.]
[Correction scheduled.]
I froze. My skin prickled. My heart slammed against my ribs.
Correction? What did that mean?
I clutched the bruised apple, the only one that ever looked imperfect, and stuffed it into my pocket.
For the first time in my life, I felt afraid.
And for the first time in my life, I felt alive.