Miles hadn't meant to stay up so late, but the lamp on his floor had been bothering him for days. It flickered every time he tried to read at night, each dimming pulse a tiny reminder that nothing in his life seemed capable of staying steady. Fixing it wouldn't solve anything real, but at least it was something he could control.
He sat cross-legged on the worn carpet, the cheap fabric prickling through his thin sweatpants. The lamp lay disassembled in front of him: wires splayed, screws scattered like tiny metal seeds. His small screwdriver kit—one of the few things he owned that felt like his—was open beside him.
He pinched two thin copper strands between his fingers, steady as always. His hands rarely shook, even when everything else in his life did. Carefully, he twisted the stripped ends together, tightening them until they held firm. The connection was clean, simple. Satisfying.
When he plugged the lamp in, it glowed with a warm, steady light.
"Still got it," he muttered under his breath.
His voice sounded soft in the cramped room, swallowed instantly by peeling wallpaper and thin, hollow walls. The room was too small to echo—just big enough for a mattress, a rickety desk, and a duffel bag that stayed packed more often than not. He lived here for now. He'd lived in worse. And he'd leave eventually. He always did.
A soft rustle came from the hallway—someone shifting around, maybe coming home late or heading to the bathroom. Miles paused, listening, then relaxed again. This place was never quiet at night. Tenants moved in and out constantly; rent changed every other month; someone always smoked something questionable in the kitchen. It wasn't home. But it was someplace to sleep with a lock on the door.
He unplugged the lamp, began to reassemble it piece by piece. The cheap plastic casing snapped shut with a faint click that was more satisfying than it had any right to be. Fixing things grounded him—machines, toys, wires, anything. Tools and circuits made sense. People didn't.
He set the lamp on the desk, switched it on again, and watched its warm glow fill the tiny space. It made the room look less miserable for a moment. A little softer. A little warmer.
Miles wished he could believe the feeling would last.
He leaned back against the wall, knees slightly bent on the mattress. The springs creaked under him like they were tired, too. He tilted his head up, exhaling slowly.
Nineteen wasn't that old, but he felt like he'd lived too much and too little at the same time. Too much stress, too little stability. Too many moves, too few reasons to stay anywhere. His family had drifted apart so quietly, so gradually, that sometimes he wondered if he'd imagined ever having a home at all.
He drew in a slow breath and let it out through his nose. "Just keep going," he murmured. His own voice sounded like advice meant for someone else.
A low rumble rolled through the floor.
Miles blinked, sitting up straighter.
The sound was subtle—like a truck passing outside—but deeper. The walls didn't shake, but the faint reverberation in the floorboards made his toes tingle.
"Earthquake?" he whispered, though he didn't feel the word was quite right.
He held still, waiting.
A second vibration followed, stronger. The lamp flickered, then steadied again. Miles frowned. The building was old and poorly maintained, but floor vibrations weren't exactly normal. Maybe a boiler malfunction? Maybe something heavy dropped downstairs? Maybe—
The lamp blazed white.
Miles flinched, throwing an arm up to shield his eyes as the warm glow exploded into something blinding, electric, almost alive. A sharp hum filled the room—no, not a hum, a resonance, like the air was vibrating around him.
"What the—?"
The floor buckled.
Not like wood bending—more like reality folding downward. Like the room had become a sheet of paper someone was crumpling from underneath.
The vibration deepened, swallowing sound, swallowing thought.
Miles scrambled backward on instinct, but he had nowhere to go. The mattress pressed against the wall, trapping him. The lamp's light pulsed brighter, brighter, until the entire room was washed out in blue-white.
"Stop—!"
The floor vanished.
Not collapsed. Not broken.
Vanished.
The moment was silent—completely silent—as if someone had pressed mute on the universe. Miles didn't fall so much as slip, sliding into something weightless, soundless, impossible. His stomach didn't lurch. His limbs didn't flail. He simply existed in a space that wasn't space, breath suspended in his lungs.
He wasn't scared at first.
He was… numb.
Empty.
Like everything that had been holding him together had finally let go.
Then sensation returned all at once.
Wind slammed against him.
Bright light pierced his eyelids.
Salt hit his tongue.
Miles gasped and reached out blindly, fingers scraping against coarse sand. His knees hit the ground next, then his palms, then his forehead as he braced himself against a sudden dizziness.
He coughed, lungs filling with warm, humid air. Slowly—slowly—he lifted his head.
The room was gone.
The lamp was gone.
Everything was gone.
In their place stretched a wide, open beach of pale gold sand. Beyond it, emerald-blue waves rolled gently against the shore, their foam shimmering with iridescent colors like spilled oil or liquid gemstones. Strange birds wheeled overhead—long, narrow wings, forked tails, and cries that sounded almost melodic.
Miles blinked hard, once, twice.
He waited for the illusion to break.
It didn't.
He pushed himself up to a sitting position. The sand shifted under him, warm and fine-grained, sticking lightly to his skin. His shoes were half-buried. His duffel bag wasn't anywhere in sight. The sky overhead was a deep, endless blue—clearer than any sky he had ever seen.
His heartbeat picked up.
"…okay," he breathed, voice barely audible.
"This… isn't my room anymore."
A ridiculous understatement, but it was all he could manage.
He looked down at himself—same clothes, same scuffed shoes, same calloused fingertips. Everything about him was normal. Everything around him wasn't.
He rose shakily to his feet. His legs felt like wet noodles, but he managed to stand. Warm wind brushed through his hair, carrying the scent of sea-salt and something sweeter—like flowers he didn't recognize.
To his right, the beach stretched toward a rocky cliff dotted with greenery. To his left, it curved around a small bay where the water glowed softly beneath the surface, as if lit from within.
Miles swallowed.
His mind raced with questions he couldn't form into words.
Nothing made sense, but the world around him felt startlingly real.
He took one step toward the shoreline.
The water rippled.
Not from his movement.
Not from the wind.
From something beneath the surface.
Miles froze, breath caught.
A soft, luminous shape drifted up from the shifting blue—a cluster of glowing tendrils that shimmered like starlight. At first he thought it was a jellyfish, but its movements were too purposeful, too curious.
The creature hovered just below the waterline, pulsing gently like it was breathing.
Miles stared at it.
It stared… or faced… him back.
A strange calm settled over him, cutting through the confusion. The creature looked fragile, delicate, almost inviting. Not threatening. Not dangerous.
Just… watching.
Miles let out a shaky breath. "Where… am I?"
The glowing creature drifted closer.
Miles took a step back.
The creature paused.
Then, slowly—deliberately—it lowered itself beneath the waves, sinking into the glowing current. The water dimmed again as it disappeared from sight.
Miles stood alone on the shore, heart thumping, palms sweaty despite the breeze.
"I'm dreaming," he whispered.
But his voice trembled.
Because he didn't believe it.
He rubbed his hands together, grounding himself with the familiar feeling of his own skin. Nimble, steady. The hands he used to fix things. Hands he trusted.
He didn't know where he was.
He didn't know how he got here.
He didn't know if he could get back.
But one thing was certain:
He wasn't alone on this beach.
And whatever else this world held, it had already noticed him.