I couldn’t explain it. Nothing bad had happened. No one had threatened me. The town was quiet, safe, almost gentle.

And yet…

I wanted to leave.

The feeling grew heavier with every step I took through the streets. The laughter of strangers felt distant. The warmth of the place felt borrowed.

Like I was living in someone else’s memory.

I finally spoke. “I don’t think I belong here.”

The man glanced at me. This time, he didn’t seem surprised.

“I was thinking the same,” he said.

That answer comforted me more than I expected.

We didn’t announce anything. We didn’t say goodbye. We simply walked toward the edge of the town, where stone paths turned into open land.

The walls weren’t high.

They weren’t guarded.

Leaving felt… too easy.

Outside, the world opened slowly.

Not dramatically—just wide.

Plains stretched beyond sight, covered in pale grass that moved like waves. In the distance, dark shapes rose from the horizon—mountains, or something pretending to be.

The sky looked different here. Not brighter. Not darker. Just deeper.

I breathed in.

The air felt heavier, but clearer. Like the world expected something from me.

“Is everything like this?” I asked. “Empty, but alive?”

The man walked beside me, hands in his pockets.

“No,” he said. “Some places will try to kill you. Others will try to keep you. A few will pretend to be both.”

That didn’t make me feel better.

But strangely… it made me curious.

We passed ruined structures half-buried in the ground—broken towers, faded symbols carved into stone. I felt like I was walking through the remains of stories I had never written.

For the first time, I wasn’t thinking about my past.

I wasn’t thinking about my mother.

Or school.

Or death.

I was thinking about what lay ahead.

And that scared me more than anything before.

Because hope feels dangerous when you’ve lived without it for too long.