They say the world ended in a moment of collective sleep…No one knows exactly when, or how, or why-Only that some awoke to find themselves alone among ruins that exhale smoke and ash.And from those ruins, cities emerged… or perhaps had always been there, waiting for someone to enter without asking a single question.Our city is one of those.We do not name it.We have no name for it, or for ourselves.We are simply called "The Remaining."And the place we live in has only one name: The Light.
I… I don't know exactly who I am.Sometimes I tell myself my name is Yareq, and sometimes it feels like an old lie, taught to me years ago-Or maybe planted in my mind the way the guards plant electric sparks into the arms of anyone who breaks the rules of the Survival Manual:Don't sleep.Don't stray.Don't ask.
Three commandments carved into every wall, hung in every room, etched into the bones of memory like scripture from a time before language.
Everything here is drenched in light.No sun, just a source whose origin cannot be found.A pale white glow-neither warm nor cold, it changes nothing.It simply shines, endlessly, as if the city is caught in a permanent death rattle between day and no-time.
The elders-if such things still exist-say that the first to try extinguishing the light vanished into the shadows… or perhaps merged with them.Since then, no one dares even think the word "darkness."
I work in wire maintenance, or so the schedule says.Each morning-or what we believe to be morning-I am handed my tool belt in silence.I walk the gray buildings, watching electric pulses flow through glass veins that feed every street, every room, every tired eye staring into nothing.The streets are always silent.It's as if everyone is here, yet no one moves.As if the city is inhabited only by reflections of our ghosts.
Three days ago-maybe more-I started to feel the light breathing.I was fixing a wall fissure in Sector H's eastern zone when I felt it:The silent hum that fills the city… had a rhythm.A pulse.Like the heartbeat of a dying man.Thump… thump… thump…Then a whisper.
I swear I heard something through the pipes.Not words-something older.A pattern.A song.Or a curse spoken in a language without letters.
I didn't speak. No one does.Speech isn't forbidden, but it's… unnecessary.Everything runs on blinks, gestures, glances.But after that moment, I started to speak-Inside.And my voice began to answer me.In my own voice.
"Do you remember?""What?""The night.""There is no night.""There was… before the light.""That's a myth.""And what is myth but a memory that got lost?"
The next day, a new paper came with my maintenance schedule:Malfunction at Building 47, sixth floor.Only then did it hit me-Building 47 was supposed to be abandoned.I'd never seen it before.And yet it stood at the end of the main street-I must've passed it thousands of times… and never noticed it.
At the door, I saw something I hadn't seen in years:A shadow.Yes-clear, real, deep-The shadow of a man standing motionless on the crumbling steps.The light didn't pierce him; it broke on him like stone.
I opened the door and entered.I didn't ask who he was.Questions anger the city-And the city is merciless to those who anger it.
The echo inside was different-As if it didn't bounce back, but slid into something behind the walls.Symbols marked the corridors-scratches like writing that shimmered if you stared too long.I climbed the stairs, step by step.Each footfall betrayed me with creaks, although I wasn't moving fast.
At the sixth floor, the door was already open.The room was lit-not with the usual white glow,But a warm yellow hue,Faint…Like sunlight preserved in this room alone.
A woman sat in the center.Her hair was long and white, cascading like curtains.Her face hidden behind a glass mask.
She didn't speak.But a voice filled my mind:
"Welcome, Yareq… You're from Generation Zero, aren't you?"
I didn't answer.I only stared into her eyes-I could not see them.Then the question came:
"Do you remember the story?"Which story?Yet I said, without knowing why: "Yes.""Then tell it to me… in your voice."
I said yes-though I didn't know why.The answer wasn't mine;It had slipped from a forgotten corner of myself-Like a memory buried under thick ash.
As soon as I spoke, the yellow light began to fade.Gradually.As if the room were breathing, and each exhale took a little more of its warmth.
Then silence-Not peace, but tension.As if the void itself was watching me.
Then I heard her-Not with ears, but presence.
A story.An origin.A myth formed in my mind without permission:
"In the first age after the end,Seven sleepers rose.They did not awaken like humans-They turned from nothing into being,Without body, without memory,Only a single seed inside each:A word they could not understand.
The word pulsed in their chests like a second heart,Pulling them toward different fates.
Some said they were the city's children.Others said they were its core.Others still claimed… they were its curse."
"The first carried the word Voice,The second Sleep,The third Mirror,The fourth Hunger,The fifth Door,The sixth Shadow-
But the seventh…Disappeared before his word could be known.And was never seen again."
"Since then, they say every member of Generation Zero carries a trace of one of them.And if you remember the word inside you…You will never escape its meaning."
I stopped breathing without realizing.The woman hadn't moved-But something inside my head began to shift-Like a cold shard of ice melting under a quiet flame.
I spoke, though not aloud.My tongue moved only inside my throat:
"I… dream sometimes. No one dreams here. But I do.I see a door open in the light.From it, shadows emerge-People-shaped, but their faces are reversed.I hear voices from within the walls.Sometimes I feel the city breath through me-Like I'm only a part of it.A limb it uses when needed… and discards when it's done."
She asked me-without moving her mouth:"And do you know your word?"
I said, without knowing where the certainty came from:"Sleep."
She replied:"Then you… are a curse."
The light vanished-completely.Darkness.True darkness.Thick.Not like the dimness of corners-But a substance, with texture, smell, weight.
I heard footsteps above-As if the city flipped over.
Then-A child's sob.
Then-Something crawling.
Not a body-But an idea, slithering across my soul.
I wanted to scream-But my mouth was full of dust,Of memories not mine,Of death.
Then… the light came back.But not the same.
I was outside Building 47.I don't remember leaving.The city's light was dimmer-cooler, bluish,Like the city itself had fallen ill.
I saw people walking-But out of sync.Uneven.They were talking.
Yes-For the first time in my life, I saw lips move-Voices emerge.But their words…Weren't of any language I knew.Each person spoke their own tongue-Tailored to their grief or fear.
In the center of the street,A new sign had appeared:A strange symbol-an eye with a door at its center.And beneath it, the words:
"Those who remember do not survive…And those who forget return to the beginning."
I returned to my room-Or maybe I never left.I lay on the metal bed, staring at the unchanging ceiling.
Then-Three knocks.And a voice I knew:
"Welcome back, Yareq… Did you sleep?"
It was the same woman.But there was no door.No room.No Building 47.
I was inside my mind.Or the story.Or… the word.And I began to understand.
Since that night,The city has not been the same.
The light weakens with each day.Some people fall asleep-And wake days later with vacant eyes,Empty faces,Laughter that makes no sound.
They say they are from the "Incomplete Generation,"And that we-the Word-Bearers-must decide:
Do we surrender to sleep…Or awaken everything?
I dream more now.In every dream, I see the other six.Each in a different city,Holding a different word,Suffering in a different way-
But all of us are pulled by something-As if all the cities are circles on the same map…
A map not drawn on paper,But carved into us.
And at the end of every dream,I hear a single whisper:
"You are not alone…The Ash Maps have begun to draw themselves."