The colony existed where the human world began to lose definition.
In the heart of the boreal taiga, amid vast stretches of forest that crossed northern Scandinavia and extended into ancient territories of Russia, there was a space that maps stubbornly insisted on oversimplifying. A continuous green stain, marked only by generic names and lines of latitude. To Max, however, that place felt more real than any city she could remember.
The trees were ancient. Not merely old — ancient in a way that could not be measured in years. Wide trunks rose like silent columns, covered in moss and lichens that reflected the light in an almost unreal way. The roots did not limit themselves to the soil; they crossed beneath the earth, forming a living network that seemed to sustain the entire forest.
The air there was different.
Colder, yes, but also cleaner. Each breath seemed to require less effort, as if the environment itself were willing to welcome those who walked among the trees. The wind passed low, almost respectful, carrying the scent of resin, damp earth, and something harder to define — a trace of antiquity that Max could feel but could not name.
The colony did not impose itself on the forest.
It grew with it.
The structures were made of living wood, shaped rather than cut, organically integrated into the trees. Some houses seemed to have sprouted directly from the ground, while others rested against trunks, suspended by structures that resembled braided roots. There were no paved streets, only natural paths, defined by use and time.
There were no walls.
Even so, Max never felt exposed.
It was as if the place itself observed who came and who went.
It took a few days for Max to notice something even stranger: there, silence was not empty.
At night, when the sky darkened completely and the stars appeared with an almost unsettling clarity, the forest remained alive. Insects, leaves, the distant crack of branches, the murmur of the wind. Everything coexisted in balance, without the constant urgency that defined the human world.
She slept.
She slept deeply.
Without dreams.
Without sudden awakenings.
And that made her uneasy.
In the world she came from — or the world she vaguely remembered — sleeping like that was a dangerous luxury. The absence of vigilance had always preceded loss. But there, even against her will, her body relaxed. As if it recognized something her mind had not yet accepted.
While Max adapted to the colony, the world beyond the taiga moved at the opposite pace.
The revelation of the Other World's existence had shattered decades of institutional denial. What had once been treated as myth, collective delusion, or science fiction was now recognized as a real variable — albeit one carefully controlled.
Governments reacted in different ways.
Some tried to close borders.
Others sought to control the narrative.
Terms like "extradimensional exposure," "biological resonance," and "adaptive anomalies" became common in official statements. The word magic was still avoided, almost taboo, replaced by technical explanations that sounded convincing enough for most of the population.
But not everyone believed.
Reports began to surface in obscure forums, videos quickly deleted, fragmented testimonies from people who had changed. Small things at first. Feeling the flow of the wind before it shifted. Anticipating simple events. Manipulating materials in ways too subtle to be called miracles.
Affinities, some said.
Coincidences, said others.
Private companies quickly occupied the space between fear and hope.
Helix Corporation frequently appeared as a symbol of progress: energy research, human adaptation projects, partnerships with governments. All too transparent to be entirely trustworthy. The Veiled Initiative, meanwhile, operated in the shadows, mentioned only in technical documents and leaked reports — always linked to containment, analysis, and "sensitive events."
None of this mentioned reflections of reality.
Nothing spoke of people displaced in time.
Nothing explained what happened to someone whose mind did not fully belong to the present.
Max absorbed this information gradually, fragmented through hushed conversations, stories told in half-voices around the fire, ancient maps pointing to regions where "the world became thin."
She did not ask many questions.
She had learned that observing was safer.
Sometimes, she walked alone along the edges of the colony, feeling the ground yield slightly beneath her feet, as if she were stepping on something alive. In certain places, the air seemed to ripple, creating almost imperceptible distortions — reflections that belonged to nothing visible.
There, reality felt more honest.
Less rigid.
Less insistent on pretending to be normal.
On one of those walks, Max noticed something that made her stop.
She did not feel late.
She did not feel the constant urgency that had followed her since she woke up in the hospital. The world was not racing ahead of her. It was not trying to leave her behind.
For the first time since everything began, Max felt that she could stand still without disappearing.
When she returned to the cabin that night, she looked up at the sky once more.
The stars seemed… closer.
Maybe not physically.
But possible.
Max did not know how long she would remain there. Nor whether that place would truly protect her when the world decided to look more closely.
But as the taiga breathed around her, slow and patient, she accepted a simple truth:
The world was learning to live with the impossible.
And she was learning that, perhaps, she was not alone in that.