It was an ordinary morning in the countryside.
The air was crisp and cool, carrying with it the scent of dew-soaked grass. The faint fragrance of freshly baked bread drifted from the old man's kitchen, weaving together with the earth's freshness. Scattered bird songs echoed from the trees, punctuated by the distant bark of a dog and the squeak of a wooden wheel rolling somewhere along the village road.
For most people, this was peace. For Sang Powell, it was just another long summer morning.
Sang was an utterly ordinary college student—so ordinary that he could have been the dictionary's definition of the word. He had no remarkable talents, no tragic background to make him special. He was simply a lazy young man, spending his vacation in his grandfather's small wooden house, far from the noise of car horns and the endless chatter of city life.
With a groan, Sang rolled over and blinked at the sunlight filtering through the curtains. He stretched his arms, grabbed the clock on the bedside table, and frowned.
"Five in the morning?! … What the hell? I actually woke up early? Pfft. Of course, this is the start of my journey to become the great Sang Powell—the youngest millionaire in the world… Right after I sleep for five more minutes."
He collapsed back onto the pillow dramatically, letting the chilly air from the open window wash over his face.
From the kitchen, his grandfather's voice thundered with unexpected energy:
"Sang! Go fetch some eggs from the farm!"
The old man had lived alone ever since his wife passed away three years ago, and Sang's visits filled the silence of the house.
"Five more minutes…" Sang mumbled weakly.
"No! Get up now! If you give in to laziness, you'll never leave that bed," the old man replied with a laugh.
"Tch… damn old man. Work? My only calling in life is sleep."
Groaning, Sang dragged himself across the floor like a worm before finally standing and shuffling out of the room.
The wooden house radiated a simple rustic warmth. Wildflowers, still jeweled with droplets of dew, surrounded the front yard. On the roof spun a weather vane shaped like a golden rooster, creaking faintly whenever the breeze shifted. Beyond the house stretched the small farm, enclosed by a sturdy wooden fence—a fence that Sang had once proudly built as a gift for his grandfather, though he complained about the effort for weeks afterward.
He trudged toward the fence, striking a mock-heroic pose.
"Let's finish this quickly… Successful men need their sleep."
He noticed the rooster still dozing lazily on its perch. A mischievous grin crept over Sang's face as he tiptoed closer. Then, suddenly, he shouted:
"Baaah!"
The rooster shot into the air with a startled squawk, flapping its wings frantically. The chickens scattered in a chaotic panic, feathers flying everywhere. Meanwhile, Sang fell to the ground, clutching his stomach as he laughed until tears pricked his eyes.
"Ha! How does it feel now, huh? Not so fun when someone else wakes you up, is it?"
Wiping his eyes, he stumbled into the barn.
The inside was dim and cool, carrying the heavy smell of hay and livestock. Light spilled in through cracks in the wooden walls, creating golden beams that cut through the dusty air. Dust motes danced lazily in the shafts of sunlight. Chickens rustled with restless wings, and the cows exhaled slow, heavy breaths that fogged the air like miniature clouds.
As Sang reached for the chicken coop, something shifted.
The air suddenly felt… heavier. The background noise of clucking and mooing dimmed, as though the world itself was holding its breath. Even the sound of his own footsteps on the wooden floor seemed unnaturally loud.
That was when he saw it.
High on the wall of the barn, half-hidden by shadows, was a broken window.
It wasn't just dark—it was wrong. Even though the morning sun shone brightly outside, the glassless frame seemed to swallow the light, devouring it instead of letting it pass through.
Sang froze, staring. He wasn't the only one. The chickens had gone completely silent, their tiny black eyes all fixed in the same direction.
"Oh, great. The haunted window again," Sang muttered, forcing a crooked smile. "Seriously, who in their right mind would haunt a barn of all places?"
His voice sounded lighter than he felt. A faint shiver crawled up his spine despite the warmth of the morning.
He tried to laugh it off, but the more he stared, the more unease twisted in his gut. A strange odor lingered in the air—something faintly rotten, seeping from the direction of the window. He realized he had ignored it many times before, brushing it off as an old farmer's superstition. But today, for reasons he couldn't explain, he couldn't tear his gaze away.
He swallowed, cleared his throat, and puffed out his chest in mock bravado.
"I am Sang the Great… and I refuse to be scared by a window."
His laugh rang hollow, bouncing weakly against the wooden walls. The silence swallowed it whole.
A rickety wooden ladder leaned against the wall near the barn door. He hesitated, then began to climb. Each step groaned beneath his weight with a deep, unsettling creak, as if the barn itself disapproved.
At last, he stood before the window. The darkness behind it pulsed faintly, like it was alive—like it was breathing.
"Alright then… let's see what secrets you're hiding."
He slowly extended his hand. The air around him grew colder with every inch, and a faint tremor passed through his fingertips.
Then—
Something yanked his arm violently.
"What the—?! Seems we've disturbed the wrong—"
He didn't even finish his thought.
The darkness surged outward, swallowing his hand, his arm, then his whole body in an instant.
The barn, the sunlight, the world—
—all vanished.
And Sang Powell was gone.
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