The Voiceless Call

Six months had passed since Wafula first discovered the peculiar ability of his intrusive thoughts. What began as an unexpected phenomenon had become the foundation of his relentless pursuit of knowledge. Plumbing, once the sole focus of his life, had become merely a chapter in the book of skills he now mastered.

The white space had become his greatest tool. In this realm, simulations unfolded with clarity no textbook could match. From basic electrical circuits to the intricacies of mechanical systems, Wafula had used his evenings and weekends to train himself. Each day after work, he would retreat to his refurbished laptop, searching for new fields to conquer, feeding his curiosity with technical manuals and guides.

His body bore the marks of a man dedicated to his craft. The long hours of work and study had left him leaner but stronger. His hands, calloused from plumbing and other hands-on work, now moved with precision when handling tools. His coworkers and superiors marveled at his growing expertise. Wafula's reputation had shifted from an overqualified plumber to a jack-of-all-trades, a man seemingly capable of solving any technical problem.

---

Despite his success, Wafula's nights were no longer restful. For three months, he had been plagued by an unshakable sensation in the white space, it was like a pull, gentle yet persistent, as though something was calling to him. It wasn't a voice or sound but an instinct, a tug on the edge of his awareness.

At first, he dismissed it as a figment of his imagination. But the sensation grew stronger with time. Each visit to the white space left him unsettled, the pull growing harder to ignore. He knew better than to rush toward the unknown. Wafula was no fool; nothing came without a price, and he feared what this mysterious call might demand of him.

But tonight, six months after the intrusive thoughts first awakened, Wafula decided he could no longer ignore it.

---

The day had been ordinary. Work at the construction site was progressing smoothly, thanks to Wafula's meticulous planning and execution. His team had installed the electrical wiring for the upper floors without a hitch, and the senior managers had left satisfied with their progress.

Wafula returned to his small but comfortable rental in Riverside. The place was quiet, a stark contrast to his old home in Kangemi, where the clamor of neighbors seeped through thin iron-sheet walls. Here, he could think, read, and sleep in peace.

After a simple dinner of rice and beef stew, he sat at his desk, staring at the laptop screen. He had downloaded a new set of PDFs on mechanical systems earlier, but tonight, the words blurred together. His mind was elsewhere, drawn to the call he had been avoiding for months.

Wafula closed the laptop with a decisive snap. Enough running. Whatever awaited him in the white space, he would face it.

---

Sitting cross-legged on his bed, Wafula took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Unlike his early days, he no longer needed a book to access the white space. It had become second nature, like slipping into a dream.

The transition was seamless. One moment, he was in his room; the next, he stood in the endless whiteness of the space.

It was as he remembered: blank, infinite, and eerily silent. Here, he could summon simulations with a thought, recreating tasks he had studied or experienced. In this space, he had built engines, wired buildings, and repaired machinery. But tonight, he didn't summon anything. Tonight, he let the pull guide him.

---

The sensation was faint at first, like a gentle breeze nudging him forward. Wafula walked cautiously, his boots echoing on the non-existent ground. The white space seemed to stretch endlessly, yet he felt as if he were covering great distances.

As he moved, the pull grew stronger. It was no longer a breeze but a current, flowing through him, urging him onward. Wafula clenched his fists, steeling himself against the unease creeping up his spine.

Minutes passed or was it hours? Time held no meaning in the white space. Wafula pressed on, his steps steady but hesitant. The pull intensified, becoming almost tangible.

And then, he saw it.

A door.

It stood alone in the vast whiteness, a stark rectangle of dark wood with a brass handle. The design was simple, unremarkable, yet it exuded an aura of importance. Wafula's breath hitched as he approached.

The pull was strongest here, as if the door itself was the source of the mysterious calling. Wafula stopped a few steps away, his heart pounding in his chest. The door seemed to hum with quiet energy, its presence both inviting and foreboding.

For a moment, he considered turning back. The white space had always been a place of learning and discovery, but this door felt different. It was unknown, unpredictable and possibly dangerous.

But Wafula wasn't a man to back down from a challenge. He had come too far, sacrificed too much to let fear dictate his actions.

With a steadying breath, he stepped forward. His hand reached for the brass handle, the cool metal sending a shiver up his arm.

He hesitated, the weight of the unknown pressing down on him. But then he tightened his grip, his resolve hardening.

Whatever lay beyond this door, Wafula would face it.

He turned the handle and pushed.

The door creaked open, and Wafula stepped through.

The white space vanished, replaced by something entirely new.